


Winter (Season 2)

by girl_with_the_tarot_tattoos



Series: The Garden [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins using magic, Canon-Typical Violence, HP universe cross-over, Highly Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lots of Sex, Multi, Referenced Character Deaths, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, again - Sex Demons, bad breakups, because - you know - Sex Demons, dubious coping mechanisms, heavily draws from the historical assassin order, implied/referenced RAI history, lots of Dragon Age references, questionable decision making, referenced abortions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 123,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10085981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_with_the_tarot_tattoos/pseuds/girl_with_the_tarot_tattoos
Summary: At the hotel we had separate rooms, but in the middle of the night she came sobbing into mine, and we made it up very gently. You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.- Lolita, Vladimir NabokovThe Assassin Order was founded in 1080 by Hassan-i Sabbah. Most scholars agree it was active from 1080-1275 before being officially eradicated by Mongol Empire. Except the scholars are wrong.





	1. Taline: symptoms

            Taline blearily opened her eyes and felt the now familiar jolt of confusion that she wasn’t in her room above the cabaret until she woke up enough to remember that she was in her husband’s rooms in the mysterious Assassins’ fortified complex of Alamūt.  Ezio Auditore, her husband and a Master in the Assassin Order, had her quit her job at cabaret the day after they were married.  She’d felt slightly resentful at his exertion of control, but it was not entirely unexpected and objectively she could understand why he wouldn’t want her dancing anymore.  He did his best to downplay it, but she had noticed that Ezio’s jealousy was easily inflamed and he was already surprisingly possessive of her.  She knew he essentially thought of her as a possession – which, while not _ideal_ , was a good enough starting point – and hoped, in time, that he would become attached to her as a person, love her as the mother of his children if nothing else.  She missed seeing her friends and coworkers, the familiar people who had populated her everyday life, but marriage required sacrifices and compromises and she was willing to make them in exchange for what she needed.  Overall, she was grateful for how things had turned out, but Alamūt was lonely without Ezio around and she missed the feeling of safety and security her husband provided.  
            _My husband_.  She absently ran her fingers over the raised lines of his signature scarred into her chest.  They’d been married for four weeks, although Ezio had been away on contract the last two.  She tried not to think about what that really meant, tried not to imagine _her_ Ezio – infectious sunny smiles and easy laughter, gentle hands and kind words – cold-bloodedly hunting down and executing the names on the list she had given him.  She knew what he was capable of – she’d perused through his memories while he was sleeping and had seen him kill with unfeeling efficiency time after time – it was confusing and frightening that both sides were part of the same person, the person she had married; her husband.  _Do I even really know him at all?_   She didn’t want to dwell on that uncomfortable question.  
            She winced as she sat up; her breasts felt sore, tender to the slightest touch.  Her monthly bleeding, due last week, still hadn’t come and she fervently hoped she was pregnant.  She hadn’t told anyone about her symptoms yet, if they meant what she thought they did, she didn’t want Ezio finding out she was pregnant from anyone else.  He had made his desire for a child abundantly clear and she wanted to give him the news herself; she hoped he’d be pleased.  She also hoped that pregnancy would bring her a slight reprieve from her husband’s seemingly insatiable sexual appetite when he returned.  She had often been awoken, sometimes multiple times in a night, by his hands wandering possessively over her body, him kissing her neck, hungry and eager to sheath himself inside her – _please, let me make love to you again, mogliettina_ – and what could she do but swallow down her frightened tears and say yes – _yes, varpet, I’d like that_.  He was too big and she was too tense, almost sick from the fear and anxiety and shame that flooded her body at the feeling of _that part_ of him inside her.  The medic she tried to talk to, Risha, summarily dismissed her with the advice that she would eventually become accustomed to having sexual relations with her husband and shamed her for ‘complaining’ about her ‘duty as a wife.’  She was humiliated by the looks and whispers that followed her after that, but perhaps the medic was right; the sporadic bleeding and cramping only lasted the first week of their marriage.  She knew it wasn’t Ezio’s fault she didn’t enjoy doing _that_ with him, that he did his best to be gentle with her.  Most of the things he did felt good – the way he kissed her and touched her was tender, loving, possessive – nothing like how that man had handled her.  She tried to suppress the memories of that man – his hard hands on her body and the acrid scent of imported cologne, pain and shame and guilt and fear.  That same man her _husband_ had promised to kill the first night they met, when she had felt trapped inside her body being controlled by someone else.  She hoped he didn’t die cleanly, that Ezio made him suffer.  She wanted to see him die and know that she was finally safe and he could never hurt her again.  She didn’t allow herself to think about the other names on the list.  That man had taken her family away years ago; there was no one left in Armenia for her to mourn.  
            She reached over to the bedside table for Ezio’s latest letter.  She’d read it the moment it arrived, which probably hadn’t been the wisest idea since she was with Mari at the time and her new sister-in-law had rolled her eyes at the deep blush that had burned across Taline’s cheeks at the first few lines of his letter.  Now that she was alone she wanted to reread it at her leisure.  Ezio opened his letter with detailed, rather graphic, descriptions of what he wanted to do with her when he got back, what he thought about at night while lying in bed alone.  Anxiety and anticipation twisted her stomach, nausea burning up the back of her throat; she swallowed repeatedly to keep from throwing up and lingered over the closing lines of his letter.  _One more week, mogliettina, and this should all be done.  I can’t wait to come back to you.  I miss you.  Do you miss me too?  I’ve got the most terrible ache for your sweet smile.  Just one more week, mogliettina, I promise._   She was embarrassed at the rush of heat she felt reading his words, at the pooling moisture between her thighs.  She wished she was brave enough to tell him the effect his letters hand on her, that she wanted to let him do the things he wrote about and how badly she wanted to like it when he made love to her, how badly she wanted to be a good wife to him – one he would be proud to introduce to his mother and show off to his friends back in Italy.  She wanted him to love her like he had loved Cristina – madly, deeply, _recklessly_ – more than Cristina – tenderly, patiently, _unconditionally_.  She had always wanted children, even when she was only a child herself.  It had been a constant, soul-deep ache – believing she would never have a child of her own, that no man could ever want her after what that man had done – and then Ezio had come, and he hadn’t rejected her, even after what she told him.  He _wanted_ her – wanted to marry her and take care of her and have children with her – and it felt so good to finally _belong_ somewhere.  Her hands drifted down to encircle her abdomen.  _Lilitu bless me; a child with his cognac eyes and beautiful smile, with all the strength of my magic flowing in his veins.  Bless me, Mother, bless me_.   
            She slipped out of bed and padded over to the dresser to select her clothes for the day.  Winter had descended over Alamūt with a sudden cold snap that made the breath catch in her throat whenever she stepped outside.  The waistband of her favorite wool skirt felt the slightest bit snugger as she fastened it and she wondered if she was putting on weight from the regular meals and relative inactivity of her new life or if there was some other reason.  She finished rolling and pinning her hair and paused to survey her work in the mirror with a smile before drifting over to the breakfast tray the elves had set for her, hot buns stuffed with pistachios and a small pot of sweetened chai tea.  She’d only just managed to finish her breakfast before she threw up.  


            The mornings usually passed quickly.  Everyone within the fortress was expect to serve the Order, to earn their keep, and so she had been shunted into service where the most help was needed; teaching.  The smaller children adored her, squabbling amongst themselves for the privileged seats closest to her and clamoring for her attention.  The other teacher, Taghrid, was obviously relieved to have a second pair of hands and eyes to help wrangle so many squirrely small children; she’d been on her own after the previous second teacher had transferred to a distant Motherhouse upon her marriage.  Taghrid was happy for her to teach the children math and help them with their reading; Taline also taught them Turkish and the ones who were interested a little Armenian.  She loved hearing her languages in their cheerful chirping voices and couldn’t wait to teach them to a child of her own.  Taline wished she could spend the whole day teaching with Taghrid, but Al Mualim must have told Rabia, the iron willed old crone in charge of educating Alamūt’s underage Assassins, about her fluency in Turkish and prodigious math skills because she was also tasked with teaching advanced classes of mathematics and conversational Turkish to older, teenaged students on her own in the afternoons.  The main problem she had with teaching the teenagers was that they were old enough to listen to, and understand, adult gossip.  It also didn’t help that many of them were bigger than her, that she had to tilt her head back to meet their eyes when they were standing.  The students she taught math were less challenging – they were largely slated to become dapīr, already inclined to be studious and scholarly – the students she taught Turkish, however, were another matter; they were outwardly obedient but smirked and whispered as soon as she turned her back.  
            They were whispering amongst themselves even now, as she wrote the day’s lesson outline on the blackboard.  Her back ached and fatigue drained the strength from her muscles and she longed to unleash the magic humming in her blood, to see fear and respect in their eyes and to have them just _shut up_ for a change.  The chalk snapped in half between her fingers when she heard the words _cabaret dancer_ in a clear and carrying undertone behind her.  _Don’t let the others know what you can do, it’s not safe_.  
            She spun on her heel and swore at them, letting the magic bleed into her voice, pitched low and grinding, growling from the Void.  She started in Ottoman Turkish, high-brow accented and well-educated, and when she ran out of the insults used in polite society she switched to street and gutter Turkish and called them things that would curl their toes if they understood what she was saying.  She finished in Armenian, and that’s where she used the filthiest insults in her arsenal, curses she’d be embarrassed for Ezio to find out she knew.  She caught her breath when she finished and looked around the silent classroom at their shocked faces with a thrill of satisfaction.  
            “Did anyone understand what I just said?” she asked in her usual tone, smile stretching wider when no one raised a hand.  “No one?”  
            One student, a boy with ruddy hair and a scant mustache he was undoubtedly very proud of, raised his hand.  “Was that all Turkish, Begum?”  
            “My husband’s title is _Effendi_ , not _Bey_ ,” Taline replied sweetly.  “But I suppose that particular honorific has become colloquial enough outside of Ottoman Turkey, and there are so few that can be used for women.”  She bared her teeth in a wide, purposefully unsettling, smile.  “Now, who can tell me the nine simple verb tenses?”  


            Her new sister-in-law’s friend, Zahra, had invited her to join them for ‘tea and scandal’ that afternoon.  She had jumped on the invitation, even though it wasn’t the sort of gathering she usually joined, delighted to have been invited to take part in the rituals Mari shared with her friends.  Simply put, she was lonely.  The Assassins were wary of outsiders and the hostility and gossip that dogged her every move within the fortress was a constant, painful, reminder that, without Ezio, they didn’t want her there.  But after throwing up her breakfast and the two classes of teenagers she’d taught that afternoon, she just wanted to go back to Ezio’s rooms and curl up under the covers and not come out again until the next morning.  The worst part was that she still had an hour until she could head up to Zahra’s room for tea and not be too awkwardly early.  She pursed her lips to keep herself from betraying her unhappiness and tugged on her new gloves, which were nicer than any she had ever even imagined owning; Ezio had bought them for her.  She carefully positioned her hat, tipping it jauntily over one eye, before ramming the sharp hatpin through it into the thick coils of her hair; she was determined to make nice with these people and fit in to Ezio’s life, no matter how horrible she felt.  _And in my dying I am more alive than I have ever been_.  
            She’d been trying to get to know her husband’s family while he was away.  Altaïr still frightened her a little, with his empty eyes and rare, mechanical smiles.  _He’s trying bellissima_ , Ezio had said to her one evening when they were cuddling together before bed, his hands wandering over her body.  _That’s just the way he is; you’ll get used to him_.  She hoped her husband was right.  Altaïr, however, was far easier for her than Mari.  Ezio had shrugged off his sister’s icy attitude as well.  _She’s just a little prickly sometimes.  You have to try a little harder to get to know her is all_.  And then he had gone to Armenia and left her there all alone.  She harrumphed under her breath at the memory of the blithe way he had said that and took the path to the Garden.  
            It was bitterly cold and Alamūt looked positively picturesque, its beautiful buildings dusted with snow as dry and powdery as confectioner’s sugar.  Except for the Garden; there was no snow in the Garden.  She breathed deeply as she wandered what had become her favorite path, the one Ezio had chosen the first time he took her to the Garden, hungrily drawing in the winter evergreen scent of the Garden itself – rosemary and cedar, damp earth, wet moss, and the crisp, sweet scent of flowing water.  All of Alamūt hummed with magic, so much magic, she was still getting used to the constant white noise of it, of the faint effervescent tingle of it beneath her skin, under her nails and between her teeth.  She understood why Altaïr had warned her not to show her magic, why Ezio had downplayed her talents and let others think her practically a squib: with access to the seemingly unlimited raw energy being continuously channeled through all of Alamūt, she had the potential to be _dangerous_.  She longed to unleash her magic, to push its limits and see how far she could take it, how much more she could do when she tapped into the energy circulating throughout Alamūt.  It was so tempting, but Ezio had made her promise to keep her magic secret, and all the things she was itching to try were bound to draw attention, lots of attention, which was something she desperately wanted to avoid.  Rumors about Ezio’s contract had filtered back to her as they spread like fire all over the fortress.  _Cathari_ , she’d heard her students whispering to one another, impressed and excited as they speculated about what her people were really like.  _The contract is for Cathari_.  But no one outside of a very few knew who those Cathari were, fewer still knew of their connection to her, and she was incredibly grateful for this.  _Ai hai Lilitu_.  
            She smiled and snuggled her cheek into the luxuriant wolf fur collar of her sherpa coat; also purchased just for her by Ezio.  He truly seemed to have meant it when he said he wanted to buy her clothes, that he wanted her in pretty things.  He had taken her shopping for shoes and winter clothes, he’d bought her boots and blouses, sweaters, skirts and dresses and an embarrassing amount of expensive lingerie – gossamer stockings and slips, silky underwear and scandalously low brassieres.  It felt _good_ to be taken care of, to belong to someone who wanted her and wanted them to start a family together, to never have to worry about going cold or hungry again.  She pulled her mother’s enameled watch from her pocket and checked the time, sighing with relief that enough had passed for her to head up to Zahra’s room for tea.  She hoped Mari was in a reasonably good mood.


	2. Maria: research

            Unlike the rest of Alamūt, the Archives felt and looked the same year round: same diffused light, same papery, slightly musty smell, same temperature – never actually warm, never actually cold.  It was like time itself stopped at the Archives’ doors.  The same could not be said of the world beyond the Archives: winter had descended, with its short days and arctic chill, the kuffār war had spilled over from Europe into North Africa and deep into Russia, all across Asia, and Grindelwald’s reign of terror had escalated to the point where the Order was grudgingly monitoring his movements, although no one seemed to think he was actually mad enough to fight the Assassins as well as all the magical governments of Europe.  
            Passing through the large double-doors and into the Archives, Mari scrunched her nose at the scent and squinted as her eyes adjusted, the light seemed so dim after the blinding winter sunlight, searching for Seamus.  
            Seamus Hastings came from a thoroughly respectable Irish wizarding family, attended a thoroughly respectable wizarding school and seemed destined for a thoroughly respectable career as a linguist in wizarding academia; all of that changed during a family trip to Egypt when Seamus was seventeen.  Really, it was simply a matter of being in the wrong place at just the right time when Seamus encountered an Assassin fulfilling a contract and it just seemed so exotic and exciting in comparison to his thoroughly respectable and predictable life that he was instantly smitten and spent the rest of his trip hunting for the local Bureau and then convincing the Order to take him.  His parents unhappily returned to Ireland without him and he mixed in the ashes of his wand when he forged his blades.  
            “Shay,” Mari breathed in relief when she found him.  She hated wandering the Archives on her own, the shadowy towering stacks creeped her out and the senior archivist made her blood run positively cold.  “You were gone for _ages_.  Have you found anything?”  
            “Oh, well _hello_ to you too, Mari,” he sniffed.  “I’ve been well, thanks for asking.  You know, _really well_ considering I just got back from _bloody-freaken-Hades_.”  Shay crossed his arms and frowned down his nose at her, the effect undermined by his immediate wince; he had a brilliant strawberry-red sunburn across his cheeks and nose that was peeling over several layers of skin, giving him a rather reptilian look.  
            “You should be more careful about the sun,” she admonished him, tugging on the front point of his beaked hood.  “Everyone knows you Micks don’t tan.”  She grinned up at him through her lashes as she teased, inviting him to drop the tension from his shoulders and smile back.  
            “You’re not as amusing as you think you are,” he replied, lips tightly pressed to keep from returning her smile.  
            “I’m amusing enough to take dancing tonight,” she countered sweetly.  Seamus wasn’t exactly her type, but he _was_ a great dance partner and she suspected he and Zahra were sweet on each other and really, how was she supposed to resist engineering ways to throw them together.  
            “Yeah, I’ll think about it.”  Seamus pushed his hood back and scrubbed a hand through his sandy brown hair.  “Who else is going?  Zahra and your new sister-in-law?”  
            Mari scrunched her nose as she studied the spines of the books on the closest shelf.  _The Twelve Uses of Dragon’s Blood… creepy_.  
            “Zahra’s coming.  I haven’t bothered to ask Taline,” she replied with a shrug, sliding her gaze back to her companion.  “She’s awfully shy for a cabaret dancer.”  
            “Probably because she doesn’t know anyone,” he responded dryly with a pointed look.  
            “She’s a walking scandal,” Mari snapped with a fresh burst of annoyance at her brother’s choice of wife – it had been nearly four weeks since Ezio’s sudden marriage, and the scandal of it was still showing no sign of fading.  It certainly didn’t help matters that no one in the fortress had managed to learn much of anything about Taline yet, which was equal parts impressive and unsettling.  “What was Ezio thinking, marrying a girl like that?”  
            Seamus shrugged and leaned a shoulder against the edge of a nearby shelf.  “Has it occurred to you that he might actually like her?  I mean, everyone knows he can hardly haul ashes with her, so it’s not just about that.”  
            “I don’t see how _everyone_ knows _that_ ,” Mari retorted.  Usually it amused her when Seamus stooped to gossip – he spoke Arabic like a textbook – but the things circulating about her brother were starting to get to her.  The gossip about Altaïr bothered her less; people had _always_ gossiped about him.  “Everyone should also know by now that Risha is a poison-tongued bitch.  Anyway, have you found something?”  
            Seamus studied her for a long moment, eyes narrowed and suspicious, and she fought the urge to squirm under his prolonged scrutiny.  “Risha’s definitely got a tongue with a tang,” he grudgingly acknowledged.  “Why are you suddenly so interested in the Maraas?  Has it got something to do with that incubus bloke you’ve been hanging round with?”  
            “I have not been _hanging round_ with him!  _Jesus_ , Shay.  Cesare is an old friend of my family!”  
            “Just an _old friend of the family_ who acts like a possessive lover around you?” Seamus scoffed.  “Really, Mari?”  
            “Have you found something?” she repeated, curling her fingers into fists, nails cutting into her palms.  
            “Yeah, as a matter of fact I have,” he replied, shoving away from the shelf and motioning her to follow him with an impatient jerk of his head.  “And you’d best at least pretend to be grateful for it; I had to go to Masyaf for help translating it.”  
            “Oh how you’ve suffered,” she laughed as she fell into step beside him.  
            “You’re damn right I have,” he grumped.  “Masyaf is a bloody miserable tomb.  There’s a _reason_ Rashid Pasha exiles people there.”  
            Rashid ad-Din Sinan, the head of the Dapīr – the Order’s scholars – had been an ox of a man in his youth, tall and broad shouldered with a large beard and fierce eyes.  Age had shrunk him some and whitened his once black beard, but the elderly scholar was still intimidating, eyes shrewd and cunning behind his thick glasses.  Mari remembered someone telling her –probably Kadija, Altaïr never bothered to tell her anything he wasn’t actually required to – that he and Al Mualim were cousins, that the roots of their family ran as deeply through the order as hers and Altaïr’s.  
            Mari shuddered.  “There’s something about Syria that feels so ominous.”  
            “There’s nothing wrong with Syria,” Seamus snorted.  “That’s just a prejudice you inherited from Altaïr.  Parts of Syria are very picturesque… except for Masyaf,” he added with a scowl.  
            “Yeah, okay, I get it.  You hate having to go to Masyaf.”  She rolled her eyes with a smile as she followed Seamus to his cubicle.  “What obscure language is this document even _in_ that you needed help translating?”  
            “Meroïtic.”  Seamus winced as he said it.  “Damn language has been extinct since at least 400 AD so there’s not a whole lot of people who can translate it with any hope of accuracy.  I _almost_ had to go to the British Museum in Cairo – greedy, nosey blighters – and you know what a nightmare _that_ would be,” he sighed as he shuffled through a couple stacks of parchment on his desk before handing her a copy of the text in question, the margins crowded with nearly illegible scribble.  
            “I thought you could read cuneiform?” she asked scrunching her nose at the unfamiliar characters.  
            “That’s not-” Seamus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “It’s in _Meroïtic_ , the language of ancient Sudan – which is _not_ one of the languages that used cuneiform.  Besides, the characters are _obviously_ very different.”  
            Mari shrugged.  “One ancient, dead language looks the same as another.”  
            “One ancient dead – One Ancient Dead–” Seamus gaped at her in horror “–You’ve got to be joking.  No, you can’t be, because that’s not even remotely funny.”  
            “What?  Meroïtic, cuneiform, same difference, right?”  
            “Er-yeah-no!”  Seamus snatched the parchment back from her.  “One is a _language_ and the other is a _form of writing_ , which was used by several languages; none of which was Meroïtic.  Have you ever listened to a single thing I’ve told you over – what – _years_ at this point?  Bloody philistine!”  
            “Yeah, okay.  Look, I’m sorry, Shay.  No need to get so upset,” she soothed reaching for his shoulder.  He shrugged away from her hand.  
            “Of course I’m upset!  We don’t have conversations where I belittle _your_ life’s work now do we?  No!  Of course we bloody-well don’t, _because that would be ill-breed and rude And At Least One Of Us Is Not That Type Of Person_!”  
            Mari sighed; she sometimes forgot how touchy Seamus could get over his work and it had always been a fine line when it came to teasing him.  
            “Okay, language versus system of writing; got it.”  She looked over at him warily.  “Apology accepted?”  
            Seamus sniffed and looked down his nose at her.  “Yeah, all right then,” he finally said after an uncomfortably long pause and motioned her to pull up a chair as he sat down and smoothed the parchment against the desktop.  “This appears to be an ancient version of the Lilith myth.”  
            “Okay,” she said slowly, slightly confused as to why Seamus thought she’d be interested in something like that.  
            “It says, more or less, that Lilith ate from the tree of sacred knowledge and became a Dreamer-”  
            “A dreamer?”  
            “Yes, Mari, a Dreamer, the text uses that particular word, the emphasis on it suggests it’s important, but without knowing more about the Cathari’s beliefs I’m not sure of its significance.”  
            “It’s just a strange word choice isn’t it?” Mari mused.  She had a vague memory of hearing the word _dreamer_ – used with the emphasis of a proper noun – somewhere before.  _Something Cesare said back in Italy?  Maybe something Sirocco had called Altaïr?_   She wished she could remember.  “Are you sure that’s translated right?”  
            “Very sure.  May I please continue?” Seamus snapped.  
            She arched an eyebrow but remained silent.  
            “Right,” Seamus continued, pushing his glasses back up his nose and hunching over the parchment.  “So Lilith ate the fruit, became a Dreamer, fell into a torpor and travelled to the Land of Nod-”  
            “Shay-”  
            “Yes, Mari, I’m certain of the translation.”  
            She sighed.  “Alright then, please continue.”  
            “Yes.  Thank you.”  He shoved his glasses back against the bridge of his nose with a hard jab of his finger, like he always did when he was excited or annoyed.  
            _Both, probably both_ , she decided.  
            “While in Nod she encountered a, a _being_ , which possessed her psyche – for lack of a better word – and she brought it back with her when she awoke from the Land of Nod,” he continued, tapping an ink-smudged finger against the curling edge of the parchment.  Mari glanced over at the towering shelves of tomes surrounding them, which stretched as far as she could see in sharp straight lines deep in to the Archives’ dim interior.  She shivered and scooted closer to Seamus; he was too absorbed in deciphering his scribbled notes on the text in front of him to notice.  
            “Their essence bled together, Lilith and the spirit, and the spirit compelled Lilith from the Garden to construct something the text referrers to as The Portal, something like a, like a _doorway_ , between this world and the Land of Nod.”  Seamus’ brow furrowed as he struggled to read his own hastily scribbled notations.  
            “Shay,” Mari hesitated, biting her bottom lip nervously.  “What’s this got to do with the Maraas?”  
            “I’m getting there, have just a little patience, will you?”  He sighed and continued reading.  “The Spirit called to its brethren through The Portal and the storm-beings came, calling their children after them.  It goes on to describe the storm-beings’ unbelievably godlike powers, it claims they made and unmade reality to suit their whims and that their children fed on men like pestilence.  The storm-beings were too powerful, too dangerous, they ravaged the first civilization until its elders devised a way to trap them and harness their power for themselves; they called the storm-beings _Djinn_.”  
            “But Djinn aren’t real, everyone knows that, Shay,” Mari scoffed.  “No one’s ever seen one.  They’re just a tall tale, a myth.  Besides, what’s this got to do with the Maraas?”  
            “What all this has to do with the Maraas, impatient Mari, is the reference to ‘the children of the storms’ which is how the Maraas are referred to in numerous other texts.  Which – quite frankly – never made much sense to me until now.  _And_ there’s a reference to gehenna,” Seamus continued excitedly, pouring over the parchment in search of it.  “I _knew_ I should have underlined it…Ah!  Here it is: ‘unleashing the Djinn is to risk Gēhannā, for they will rape the world to ashes and ignite the oceans with their rage.  Their storms must be contained.’  Well now, isn’t that cheerful?”  
            “Does it say anything more about the ... pestilence bit?  Feeding on men, I think you said?  Like, what that even means?” she asked slowly.  
            “Not in this particular document,” Seamus sighed, pulling a stack of parchment towards himself and rummaging through them.  “The other sources I’ve found all describe the effects of the Maraas’ feeding to be more like… a chronic fatigue, where the victims just waste away with prolonged exposure and/or the occasional instance of the victim being drained all at once – usually multiple Maraas are involved in those – and left a vegetable.  If your cousin is suffering from chronic fatigue, quite frankly, I’m afraid of what he’d be like at full strength.”  
            “No,” she said slowly as her mind whirled, cataloguing the changes she’d noticed in Altaïr.  “It’s more like, he’s being given some sort of upper?  I’m _pretty sure_ he’s gotten stronger, and his stamina, it’s verging on superhuman at this point.  He’s gotten _really_ moody too.”  
            “I’m _pretty sure_ he’s _always_ had the personality of a honey badger, Mari,” he replied doubtfully.  “And the other stuff, how do you know he’s not on something?  That seems like the simplest, most logical explanation, and much more likely than him being – I don’t know – _juiced_ , or something, by his succubus lover.  That’s like a plotline from some bat-shit crazy penny dreadful.”  
            “It only seems like the simplest, most logical explanation if you don’t know Altaïr; he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, hell, he barely drinks coffee.  Shay, he’d _never_ take drugs; he thinks taking painkillers is a deplorable sign of weakness,” she insisted.  “And he _has_ gotten moodier.”  
            Seamus sighed.  “Okay, fine.  There still could be a perfectly reasonable, natural explanation for you noticing a change in his _sparkling_ personality.”  
            “The perfectly reasonable, natural explanation I’ve noticed a change is because there _has_ been a change,” she retorted.  “I know my cousin, Shay.  Yeah, he can be a real peach sometimes, but-”  
            _I’m just keeping an eye on things to make sure she doesn’t unleash Gēhannā in the process_.  Cesare’s words echoed loudly in her head and she felt the blood drain from her face.  
            “Mari?”  Seamus gently jostled her shoulder, brow furrowed with concern.  “Is everything okay?”  
            She swallowed shakily as suddenly Cesare’s cryptic, off handed comments fell into place.  It seemed crazy, but that’s why he must have felt so chatty: he knew that even if she pieced it all together no one would believe her.  She’d be like that Greek woman from the story her mother used to read her before bed, shouting out warnings which would only be ignored.  _What was her name?  Cassandra?_   She _did_ remember that the story hadn’t ended well for her, that she’d been forced to watch as all of her warnings came true.  _Tell us, oh Cassandra, what spares fate’s hand from thee?_   She wanted to smack Cesare right in his smug face for doing this to her.  _I bet he’s been laughing at my expense this whole time_.  The very thought made her grind her teeth.  _We’ll see who gets the last laugh, Cesare Maraas_.  
            “I don’t know.  We need to find out more about how the first civilization trapped the Djinn; where these prisons are, what they look like.”  
            Seamus snorted.  “You said it yourself, Mari, Djinn aren’t real.  What’s the point in looking for something that doesn’t exist?”  
            “I think we were wrong, Shay.  If we accept that the Maraas are children of the storms, then we have to admit that Djinn are _real_ and it makes sense that no one has seen any of them for, what, a millennia, because the first civilization imprisoned them.”  
            “Slow down,” Seamus said, eyes widening as he shot a furtive look over her shoulder.  “You’re starting to scare me a little here,” he continued in an undertone.  “Why are you suddenly so interested in all this stuff _now_ , it’s not like you.  I mean, your cousin has been-” Seamus coughed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat “- _involved_ , with his supernatural lover for years at this point and you’ve hardly seemed to care.  What changed?  Has something happened?”  
            She looked everywhere but at him, the warm red glow of the lantern across the parchment, the shadowy tall stone columns.  She wondered how much she should tell him, more importantly, how much she _could_ tell him.  Her eyes finally met his, rich warm hazel – golds and caramels and lush verdant greens – and the answer was obvious.  _Everything_ , she decided.  _Well, almost everything_.  
            “This stays between us, okay?”  She paused, waiting for his acknowledging nod.  Seamus hesitated, worry and suspicion and faintest traces of fear shifting through his expression before he jerked his head.  
            “Just between us,” he affirmed, voice smooth and steady and she almost could have cried from the relief she felt at finally telling someone who would believe her.  
            She leaned forward, dropped her voice low and told him everything, all she could remember about her strange conversation with Cesare, the various strange things the incubus had said, about Sirocco and her unsettling hold over Altaïr, everything.  _Nearly_ everything.  She didn’t tell him about what Cesare had done to her, his infatuation and how it frightened her, how she had passed out in his arms as she felt his heat sliding down her throat, how she longed for him and how much she _hated_ him, how much she hated herself for feeling anything but revulsion for him at all.  _None of that is the slightest bit relevant_ , she reasoned.  _It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, there’s nothing to hide, it’s just no one else’s business_.  
            “I don’t know, Mari,” Seamus hummed.  “It seems a lot more likely to me that that incubus bloke was just trying to pique your interest, set it up so that you come searching him out rather than the other way around.”  
            “Cesare’s not that subtle.”  She blew a stray curl off her face.  “He heads straight for whatever strikes his fancy; if he really wanted us to chat more often he’d walk right up and talk to me.”  
            “Okay,” Seamus said slowly.  “If he’s so straightforward, what was his purpose in telling you all of that?  I mean, it’s informative, in a way, but he left out a fair amount of pretty essential stuff with no guarantee that you’d be able to figure out what he was talking about at all.  And, in some peoples’ opinion, what he told you about your cousin’s, um-” Seamus paused to cough delicately before continuing “- _private affairs_ , isn’t any of your business in the first place.”  
            She gnawed her bottom lip and shrugged; she really didn’t have an answer to that particular question.  
            “Have you talked to Ezio about this?  What does he think?” Seamus asked, fingertips tapping out an anxious tattoo against the scarred wood of his desk.  
            She groaned.  “Shay, really?”  
            “What does he think?” Seamus pressed.  
            “You should know by now that my brother doesn’t exactly think about anything more than he absolutely has to.  I mean, look at his wife,” Mari retorted.  
            “I have,” Seamus replied with a smirk and a suggestively arched brow.  “And she’s quite an eyeful.”  
            “First, she’s a pygmy,” Mari snapped, jabbing Seamus in the side.  “And second, she’s Ezio’s so you’d better keep your eyes to yourself.”  
            “She’s not a pygmy, Mari.  Learn some cultural sensitivity,” he scolded.  “And yeah, she’s pretty, but you’ve got nothing to worry about from me.  I like having everything intact, thank you very much; I’ve seen Ezio train.”  
            “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, immediately defensive of her brother.  
            “That my self-preservation instincts are too strong to play the odds of your brother having even a fraction of the jealousy issues that your cousin does,” he retorted.  “Altaïr’s claim over his _lover_ is tenuous, at best, but that doesn’t stop him from barking down the throat of every man that slides a sideways look at her.  That girl is _actually_ Ezio’s _wife_ , and he’d be well within his rights to shank any man who tried anything on with her.  It’s no wonder everyone avoids her like the plague.”  
            Mari frowned.  “I thought people were avoiding her because she’s Cathari.”  
            “She’s a Cathar?”  Seamus’ eyebrows shot up as his jaw dropped.  
            His reaction would have been comical if she wasn’t suddenly so uneasy that Ezio and Altaïr were obviously hiding what Taline really was from the rest of the Order.  _What are they playing at?  Cathari can be dangerous_.  She didn’t _really_ think Taline herself was much of a threat – the only indication of magic she’d seen from her was when she transfigured Ezio’s water into wine at their wedding dinner – but Al Mualim had her teaching children and that made her slightly uneasy.  
            “Yeah, she’s a Cathar,” Mari confirmed, sawing her teeth across her bottom lip thoughtfully.  “Keep that bit of information to yourself for now, just until I have a chance to talk to Altaïr and Al Mualim, okay?”  
            “No, yeah, I mean of course,” Seamus hastily agreed.  “But that’s amazing – like, _unbelievably amazing_ – luck.  D’you think you can introduce us?  I’ve got _so many_ questions about the Cathari she could answer.  I mean, her interpretation of this alone-” he brandished his notes on the Meroïtic Lilith text at her “-would be unbelievably helpful.  D’you know if she’s very devout, because that would be even better!”  Seamus shoved his glasses back against the bridge of his nose, expression animated and shining with excitement.  
            “What happened to those strong self-preservation instincts you were just going on about?” she asked acerbically.  
            “My interest is strictly academic,” he sniffed.  “Even Ezio can’t be offended by that.”  
            “Please don’t insinuate things about my brother, Shay,” she replied and drummed her nails on the table thoughtfully.  The thing was, she didn’t really _know_ Taline – she didn’t know anything about her, not really – and she didn’t know if she could be trusted not to tell Ezio all about what they were researching.  Not that Ezio would care, he’d shrug it off as her just being paranoid or something, but he’d inevitably say something to Altaïr – who would be positively _furious_ that she was ‘meddling’ – and _of course_ Altaïr would tell Sirocco, and, if she was right about any of it, that could be very dangerous for all of them.  
            “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Shay,” she replied slowly.  “We don’t want this getting back to the Maraas, _just in case_.  They might not like us looking into this stuff, and they’re not exactly _harmless_.”  
            Seamus shrugged.  “So we don’t tell her what we’re really researching.”  
            Mari arched a skeptical brow.  
            “Look, I’m dapīr, right?  Our whole job description is research and archives, really academic stuff.”  
            “Yeah, so?”  
            “So, I work with ancient texts and I just _happened_ to mention this particular one while we’re chatting, you mention your sister-in-law is Cathari, and I asked for an introduction for my research.”  He threw his hands up with an easy smile.  “Simple as that.”  
            “I don’t know, Shay,” she murmured doubtfully.  “That’s a really specific and obscure text to just stumble across.  I mean, _it is_ , right?”  
            “Yes and no.”  He shrugged.  “Fidā'ī have been bringing back texts by the armloads for centuries – your lot’s a bunch of sticky-fingered magpies, aren’t you – and there’s quite a sizeable backload of texts waiting to be translated.  I’ve actually still got to write this translation up properly, so Taline’s input on the significance of the specific language used would be incredibly valuable for my report.”  
            “Yeah, I get that, I really do,” she sighed, picking nervously at her cuticles.  “I’m just really nervous about anything maybe getting back to the Maraas.”  
            “Why?” Seamus asked, a look of genuine puzzlement on his face.  “What do you think they’ll do?”  
            “I don’t know!” she burst out in frustration.  Seamus winced and motioned for her to lower her voice.  “I just don’t know.  I mean, no one would think anything of it if something went sideways and I didn’t come back from a contract,” she continued in an undertone.  
            Seamus whistled softly between his teeth.  “That’s pretty serious.  D’you really think they’d go that far?”  
            “ _I don’t know_ ,” she repeated miserably.  “But I do know that Sirocco would be more than a little delighted if something happened to me.”  
            “Yeah, but as serious as all that?” he asked softly and cast a furtive look over his shoulder.  She followed his gaze; there was no one there.  
            _She gets so sad when they’re gone, which is probably why she’s making extra sure that won’t happen with the current favorite_ , Cesare had said.  Her throat tightened and her toes curled against the insoles of her boots.  _I should miss our little chats terribly when you’re gone._  
            “Sirocco’s got her claws sunk deep into Altaïr, and, from what Cesare said, it sounds like she’s pretty invested in keeping it that way.  I don’t think she’d hesitate to, _remove_ me, if I became a real problem for her,” she murmured, chaffing her hands over her upper arms.  There was no logical reason why she suddenly felt so cold.  _Damn clammy, creepy Archives_.  
            “Well, shit.”  Seamus leaned back in his chair and cupped his hand around his chin.  “I can promise to tread carefully, and really, her take on that version of the Lilith myth would be invaluable to the Archives – but you’re the one in the precarious spot, Mari, it’s really up to you.”  
            Mari sighed and rubbed her eyes.  “What’s so special about that version of the myth?”  
            Seamus dropped his eyes to the slate-tiled floor and drummed his fingers against his cheekbone.  “It’s old, really old, for starters,” he said slowly.  “And the specific language used and unusual details included are, quite possibly, unique – which is why I’d like to run it by your Cathari sister-in-law – I’m just not familiar enough with that religion and its myths to say for sure.”  
            “So it could be something really important or it could be nothing and you don’t really have a way to tell which one it is on your own, is basically what you’re saying,” she surmised as she tiredly rubbed her eyes.  
            “Basically… yes, exactly,” he admitted, tone heavy with regret.  “I’m sorry I don’t have better answers for you, Mari.  It’s not like your _old friend_ gave us all that much to go off of.”  
            She tensed at the rebuke implicit in his tone.  “It’s a game to him – he likes to toy with people, make them jump and squirm, it’s just what he does.”  
            “That’s kind of sick,” Seamus replied, tilting his head thoughtfully to the side.  “Question: if he’s so powerful and ancient and world-weary, and all that stuff – why is he bothering to toy with us?  You, mostly, but still.  I mean, you’re not exactly intellectual equals or anything, no offense-”  
            “No offense?” she interrupted him incredulously, eyes narrowing.  “You basically just called me dumb, Seamus Hastings, but really, _No Offense_.  How could that _possibly_ offend me?” she huffed.  “No offense, _really_.”  
            Seamus flushed.  “I phrased that poorly.”  
            “You think?” she retorted with a hard look and then shrugged.  “They must have their reasons for what they do, I mean, Altaïr isn’t exactly the most obvious choice for a succubus.”  
            “I wonder…” he murmured thoughtfully, gaze unfocused and distant and he mulled something over.  Mari impatiently waited for him to finish his thought as the silence stretched.  
            “You wonder what, Shay,” she finally prompted when her impatience got the better of her.  Seamus’ gaze slid back to her and his calculating expression raised the hairs along the back of her neck.  
            “Well, we don’t really know _what_ they want, do we?” he said slowly, deliberately.  “That incubus bloke confirmed that they want something they need us to get, right?”  He waited for her affirmative nod before continuing.  “So if they want something the Order has, or even proxy control of the Order itself, Altaïr is a pretty obvious choice, isn’t he?”  
            “Because everyone thinks he’s next in line to become Al Mualim,” she confirmed impatiently.  “But that’s not a sure thing.  And Altaïr is loyal to the Order first and foremost.  There’s got to be a simpler, more direct way for them to get whatever it is they’re after.”  
            “Yeah, maybe.”  Seamus frowned.  “It’s just strange.”  
            “What?” she asked.  “Shay, what’s strange?”  
            “Gehenna,” he replied.  “It’s really an oddly specific word to turn up in what – it’s Cesare, right? – said and it’s even stranger for it to be in this text.”  
            “Okay…” Mari said slowly.  She didn’t see the point he was trying to make.  
            He sighed.  “The etymology of the word “gehenna” is usually traced back to the Hebrew _Ge Hinnom_ , literally Valley of Hinnom – the place where all those _evil non-believers_ sacrificed their children by fire,” he explained, tone veering towards sarcastic.  “But this text is in Meroïtic,” he continued, sarcasm forgotten in academic fervor.  “And the linguistic markers suggest it’s at least contemporaneous with the old testament references to gehenna, maybe older, so what’s a reference to – presumably – an actual valley just outside of Jerusalem doing in a myth from a totally different religion being transcribed in the ancient kingdom of Sudan?  That’s really _strange_.”  
            “Maybe the word traveled the trade routes and the context got garbled?” Mari suggested with a shrug.  Seamus shot an unflatteringly surprised look at her, brows arched high in disbelief.  
            “Probably,” he finally agreed, seeming to have decided against making any other comment.  “But based on how it’s used here and by the incubus, I think the word itself might originally have come from somewhere else, was misunderstood as Ge Hinnom – but kept its connection to burning and fires – and so that’s what the Jews named the place where things were burned outside of Jerusalem.”  
            “Is this really how academia works?” Mari laughed uncomfortably.  “Wild speculation vaguely supported by sketchy evidence?”  
            “Basically,” Seamus snorted with a rueful shake of his head.  “In an ideal world I’d just ask one of the Maraas directly.”  
            “And they wouldn’t lie to you,” Mari added with snort and a grim smile.  
            “Everyone lies.”  Seamus shrugged.  “Sometimes that’s just as useful.”  
            She rolled her eyes.  “You almost sound like Altaïr.”  
            “I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.”  
            She huffed an unwilling laugh and glanced over at the small clock nearly buried under the sheaves of parchment on Seamus’ desk.  
            “Is that the time?” she asked sharply, already starting to her feet, with a sharp jerk of her chin at the clock.  
            “Um, yes?”  Seamus arched an incredulous brow.  “Why wouldn’t it be?”  
            “I’m late,” she hastily explained, smoothing her loosened hair back into its braid and straightening her robes.  “Zahra asked Taline to tea and wants me there too; she expects me to make nice.”  
            “Hope springs eternal,” Seamus commented sardonically.  
            “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she snapped over her shoulder with a scathing look; Seamus sometimes thought he was wittier than he really was.  
            “Nothing,” he replied innocently.  “Have fun.  Arrange us an introduction with your new sister,” he called after her.  
            She groaned and acknowledged his request with a distracted flap of her hand as she strode towards the door.  _Really, he’d sacrifice his own mother for the greater good of academia_.  She’d decide what to do about Taline and the Maraas later; Zahra was scary serious about punctuality.


	3. Taline: sympathy, tenderness

            She carefully rubbed the last traces of her tears from her cheek and shifted her weight onto her other foot as she waited outside Altaïr’s door, already half regretting her impulsive decision to visit him after her encounter with Mari.  She had left Zahra’s room so upset she had been shaking and she was desperate for company to distract her from the echoes of Mari’s ugly words ringing in her mind.  He opened the door before she had a chance to lose her nerve and slink away.  
            “Taline,” he greeted her perfunctorily.  Altaïr was tall and lithe, all sinew and sculpted muscle, warm light skin and sable-dark hair.  There were shades of Mari in his high, sharp cheekbones, hints of Ezio to his jaw.  His eyes were uncanny, more gold than brown – like a caracal or an eagle.  _Predator’s eyes_.  She shivered a little as he swept his gaze over her, uncomfortably aware of how much he saw.  
            “Good afternoon,” she murmured, keeping her eyes downcast.  “I’m sorry to call on you like this Effendi – uninvited – but I don’t really know anyone else and I couldn’t face spending another evening all alone.”  
            He studied her for another long moment and then stepped aside and motioned her into his chambers.  “Please, be welcome, cousin.  Is something troubling you?  Have you heard from Ezio?”  
            Out of habit she glanced around his rooms as she entered.  There were several examples of exquisite Persian calligraphy hung on the walls, the frames unadorned but obviously well crafted; she had admired them on previous visits and almost wanted to ask where he had gotten them and what they said.  The rest of the sparse furnishings were a mishmash of styles – obviously gifts or hand-me-downs – and probably not selected by Altaïr himself.  
            “Yes, I received a letter from him yesterday,” she replied, carefully tugging the tip of each finger to loosen her gloves before removing them and slipping them into the pocket of her coat.  “He thinks he’ll be finished, in Armenia, in another week or so.”  
            “That is very welcomed news,” Altaïr replied, taking her coat from her and hanging it on a hook by the door.  “But is something else bothering you Taline?  Do you not like it here?”  
            She tried to resist the urge to fidget, failed, and then compromised by carefully smoothing her skirt.  It was a loaded question, rife with hidden pitfalls and dangers.  _What is safe to tell him and how do I say it?_  
            “It’s a big change, but I do like it here.  It’s very nice; the gardens are lovely.  Taghrid – the teacher I work with in the mornings – is very nice and Mari’s friend Zahra asked me to have tea with her and Mari.”  
            “You should accept her invitation,” he replied tapping his blade against a teacup before handing it to her.  “They’re probably more amusing company than I am.”  
            “I did.”  She inhaled deeply, enjoying the soothing scent of hot mint tea.  “It didn’t go especially well,” she confessed before taking a careful sip of her tea.  
            “How so?” he asked with a questioning quirk of his brow.  
            “I don’t know what I’ve done to make Mari dislike me so much.”  She nibbled at her bottom lip and studied the spirals of steam rising from her tea.  “Aside from marrying Ezio, that is.”  
            “Maria has always been difficult,” he said with a shrug.  “But she’s loyal and she loves her brother very much.”  
            “Isn’t there room for me to love him as well?” she blurted out in frustration.  
            “Do you love him?” Altaïr asked quickly.  His eyes were sharp and hard and she could feel him carving into her defenses, searching for any hint of deceit.  
            “I want to!  I’m trying; I-I think I will love him, in time,” she replied, hating how tangle-tongued and ineloquent she sounded, and she silently pleaded with her eyes for him to understand how hard she really was trying to make everything work.  His magic burned the back of her throat; it tasted like blood and cardamom.  
            “You will.  Ezio is easy to love.”  
            There had been the faintest hint of _something_ buried in his voice, not exactly jealousy or bitterness, but something else she couldn’t quite place and it _almost_ made him seem more approachable and human.  
            “Mari said something like that too, about Ezio being easy to love,” she replied, throat tight and stinging.  “She also said he has a habit of sleeping around, with lots of women, and that our marriage won’t change that.  She said he’s probably already taken half the whores in Yerevan to bed by now.”  Angrily she wiped away the scaling tears that spilled down her cheeks.  She hated that she was crying over her sister-in-law’s hurtful words, hated how foolish she felt for believing that Ezio would be faithful to her, for believing him when he wrote that he longed for her.  
            “Maria doesn’t know everything, and that’s really none of our business – hers and mine – who Ezio takes to bed,” Altaïr replied stiffly, clearly uncomfortable with her tears.  “My aunt’s marriage was not especially happy, due in large part, I’ve been told, to her husband’s chronic infidelity.  Ezio and Maria grew up watching that sort of behavior ruin their family’s happiness.”  
            He awkwardly offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted with a watery sniff.  
            “Ezio is a much kinder man than his father was; you are his wife – you have every right to expect certain things from your marriage – and fidelity is not an unreasonable expectation.”  He looked away and she watched his mouth tighten, grim and resolute.  “I will do what I can to ensure that he is a good husband to you; you both deserve for your marriage to be happy.”  
            She dabbed at her nose with his handkerchief before crumpling it tightly in her hand.  She wanted to believe what he was telling her: that her husband was a kind man and that she deserved to be happy in her hasty marriage, that she and Ezio deserved to be happy together – _Dark Mother beyond the Veil_ – she so badly wanted that to be true.  
            “Thank you, Effendi,” she murmured.  
            He smiled at her, mechanical, practiced.  “Please, we’re family now; call me Altaïr.”  
            “Yes, I will.  Thank you… Altaïr.”  She took a hasty gulp of hot mint tea for lack of anything else to do with her hands and heaved a sigh of relief when Altaïr’s cat sauntered into the room.  
            “Auggie,” she cooed, setting her teacup on the floor beside her as she knelt on the rug and stroked the cat’s thick soft fur.  Augustine meowed in response and butted his face against her hands to be pet, a loud gravelly purr rumbling from his throat.  
            Altaïr sighed at the cat and returned to the papers and dossiers scattered across his low dining table.  
            “What are you working on?” she asked him as she scratched behind Augustine’s ears.  
            “Paperwork,” he replied dourly.  “For some reason no one ever mentions how much time Masters must spend doing paperwork until after one becomes one.”  
            She chuckled at his thinly veiled complaint.  “What sort of paperwork?”  
            “Evaluations, reports, requisition orders for supplies, things of that nature,” he replied distractedly.  “I’ve been putting it off, but Al Mualim should be here shortly so I can’t procrastinate anymore.”  
            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she hurriedly apologized.  “I should go.”  She started to rise, but quickly sank back down on the carpet as she tried to swallow a sudden wave of nausea.  Fortunately, Altaïr was distracted by the document he was reviewing and didn’t notice her sudden pallor.  
            “You are more than welcome to stay,” he replied as he frowned at the document he was reading like it had done him a personal wrong.  “August enjoys your company and I’m sure the Mentor would like to hear how you’re settling in.”  
            “You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked, carefully stroking a single fingertip over Augustine’s paw.  She wanted to stay, to play with the cat and visit with Altaïr and Al Mualim; her evenings were especially lonely without Ezio.  She was used to being up late and working at night, being surrounded by music and laughter and people.  
            “Not at all.  There’s a ribbon, just over there on the bureau, that August likes to play with,” Altaïr distractedly flapped his hand in the general vicinity of his dresser and then uncorked a fresh bottle of ink.  “That should keep him busy and out of the wet ink, which will be most helpful.”  
            Taline smiled and went over to the bureau in search of the ribbon.  She could tell at a glance that the ribbon wasn’t where Altaïr had said it was; his rooms were almost unsettlingly neat – with utilitarian, minimal furnishings and very few personal or household effects.  She lingered to study the trio of photographs in heavy, unadorned silver frames displayed on the top of his bureau.  
            The first was of a woman, dressed as a Master, with terrifyingly empty eyes and ink-black hair.  Her features were too strong to be considered classically beautiful, but she had a different kind of beauty, predatory and fierce.  Taline shivered as she studied the woman’s features, so similar to Altaïr’s, despite the difference in eye color, that she intuitively knew the woman in the picture must have been his mother; he looked astonishingly like her, there was almost nothing of his father in his face.  
            The middle picture was of the same woman, this time wearing a flowing dress with a high, empire waist, and an impressively enormous hat.  She was sitting on the edge of a fountain Taline recognized from her walks in Alamūt’s Gardens, one arm around the boy sitting beside her – who must have been a young Altaïr – and the other futilely trying to protect her hat from being stolen by the girl standing beside her – presumably Altaïr’s adopted sister, Kadija.  All three of them were laughing and smiling, the slice of a perfectly happy moment repeating endlessly within the frame.  Taline could feel herself smiling as she watched them.  
            She could tell that the last photo was the most recent, although it was still a couple years old.  She smiled tenderly as she picked up the heavy picture frame to study it more closely.  Ezio was beaming at the camera toothily, his arms around his sister and an older woman, presumably his mother, standing on either side of him.  He looked surprisingly young, his dazzling smile less dimmed by grief and regret.  Mari’s smile was wide, excited, as she looked up at her brother adoringly.  
            “That was taken three years ago, when he became a Master.”  
            She almost dropped the picture in surprise and glanced over towards Altaïr; he hadn’t even looked up from the report he was writing.  
            “Is that Ezio’s mother, with him and Mari, in this picture?” she asked as she returned her attention to the photograph in her hands, studying the older woman beside Ezio.  She strongly resembled the woman in the other two photographs, her features were softer but her eyes were just as hard.  _Assassin’s eyes_.  
            “Yes.”  
            “She’s your aunt then, your mother’s sister?” Taline asked, hoping to prompt him into telling her more.  
            “Yes.”  
            She bit the inside of her cheek and stifled a frustrated sigh; most people would have picked up on the social cues to tell her more about her husband’s family.  It felt rude to question him directly, but, thankfully, Altaïr didn’t seem to mind a blunt approach.  
            “What’s she like?”  
            Altaïr looked up at her and tapped the end of his pen against the table thoughtfully.  “I’m not sure I understand your question.”  
            She sighed.  “Just, what is she _like_.  Is she nice?”  
            “What do you mean by _nice_?” he asked, setting down his pen and carefully capping the pot of ink as Augustine jumped up on the table next to him.  
            Taline replaced the frame on the bureau and tried to ignore the foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach that Altaïr needed her to define ‘nice’ before he could answer what she thought was a fairly simple question.  “Is she like Ezio?”  
            “No,” he replied thoughtfully.  “She’s not like Ezio.  Between the two of them, I suppose she’s more like Maria.”  
            “Oh,” she replied softly with a sinking feeling.  _No wonder Ezio hasn’t said anything about taking me to meet her yet_.  
            “She was raised here, in Alamūt, like Kadija and me.  Ezio and Maria were raised in Italy – it’s, _different_ there,” he continued, as though the further explanation actually meant anything to her.  
            “What’s it like, in Rome?” she asked hesitantly.  “Ezio says he’ll probably have to go back, at some point.  Will I like it there?”  
            “Rome is-” he shrugged, “-it’s just different than it is here.  There’s only Assassins here, it’s safer; there, you’re living in the middle of a metropolis, surrounded by kuffār.”  He shrugged again.  “They’ve been slaughtering each other, worse than animals, over petty differences.”  
            “I know.”  She chewed the edge of her bottom lip and carefully adjusted the angle of the picture frames on the bureau.  “Is this your mother, in these other two pictures?”  
            “Yes.”  There was the slightest edge to his tone, a sudden hint of tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago.  She wondered what it meant.  
            “She was very striking,” Taline murmured, watching him from the corner of her eye.  “You look a lot like her.  What was your father like?  Do you have any pictures of him?”  
            “I’ve never had a father,” he replied, scooping up Augustine, who had sprawled across the documents he was trying to work with, and depositing him on the floor.  
            “Do you mean that he died before you were born,” she asked, cautiously approaching him to pet the cat.  
            “No,” he replied tersely.  “I mean that I’ve never had a father; my mother never married.  No one even knows who he is.”  
            Taline frowned slightly as she pulled Augustine into her lap; the cat resisted briefly with an indignant squawk before he submitted to being cuddled.  
            “Surely your mother knew-”  
            “I’m sure she did,” he interrupted, tone artfully neutral.  “But she never told anyone else.  That information died with her; I don’t know if he even knew about me.”  
            “Haven’t you ever wondered about him?”  
            Altaïr shrugged, sharp and stiff with annoyance.  “Not really.”  
            “But he’s your family,” she protested.  “Surely-”  
            “I have a family,” he snapped.  “ _Kadija_ is my family.  Aunt Maria and Hadassah and Ezio and Maria, _they_ are my family.  The whole Order is my extended family; that man is _nothing_ to me.”  
            “I’m sorry,” she murmured, concentrating on petting the cat.  Augustine looked up at her, drowsily blinking his eyes as he purred.  “I didn’t mean, I just, I’m sorry.”  
            “It’s fine.  You didn’t know.”  He drummed his fingers and frowned at the table.  “Family matters to you, doesn’t it?” he asked.  His contemplative look raised the hairs along the back of her neck.  
            “Of course it does,” she replied cautiously.  “I’ve always wanted a big family, with lots of children, ever since I was a child myself.”  
            His eyebrows momentarily arched in surprise before his expression slid into an empty, practiced, smile.  “I am glad to hear that; Ezio has always wanted to have many children as well.”  
            “Is that surprising?” she asked, suddenly reminded that, for all his chivalry and apparent acceptance, Altaïr was still very much a dangerous stranger.  _The youngest ever to reach the rank of Master in the whole history of the Order_ , Taghrid had whispered to her over tea while their students were taking their mid-morning nap.  _His lover is a Maraas, they say he’s half Maraas himself.  They say he will be the next Al Mualim._  
            He tilted his head to the side as he studied her.  “It’s a little unexpected.  You sent him to Armenia to kill all of your relatives, after all.”  
            Her hands convulsively gripped the cat in her lap and Augustine yowled in indignation at her manhandling.  
            “Excuse me?” she managed to whisper through her suddenly icy-stiff lips.  Her list hadn’t been very long, most certainly not her entire family.  
            “The contract you signed,” Altaïr said, sliding a questioning look at her.  “It was for your entire family, down to the last child, and all your family’s holdings given over to the Order.  Really, quite an impressive dowry.  Didn’t you read it?”  
            She shoved the cat off her lap and scrambled for his bathroom, reaching the toilet just before she started vomiting.  Altaïr trailed after her and watched impassively from the doorway for a moment before he drifted away again.  There wasn’t much to throw up, she’d only managed maybe a cup and a half of tea all afternoon, and she continued dry heaving long after her stomach was empty.  He returned while she was still kneeling on the floor, clutching the rim of the toilet bowl and trying to catch her breath.  
            “You had no idea,” he observed as he handed her a moistened washcloth to wipe her face.  
            “No,” she rasped.  “I, I don’t read Arabic very well.”  
            Ezio had taken her to a formal and imposing room to sign the assassination contract just before he left.  The sound of their footsteps ricocheted loudly off the hard walls and marble floor, the echoes spawning echoes of their own, as they crossed that cavernous space to where Al Mualim and the head of the Order’s Vicīr – the lawyers – waited with for them, flanked on either side by empty-eyed fidā'ī and vicīr.  The contract was long and formal, it’s terms laid out in exceptionally elaborate calligraphy, and she’d felt so intimidated and frightened, her every movement followed by those scores of hard, cold eyes, she signed where the lawyer indicated as quickly as she could so Ezio could take her away from that awful place.  She’d felt the quill slice her signature across the back of her hand but there was no visible wound from that contract.  She hadn’t even thought to try to read it first, to ask for anyone to explain the terms.  _What have I done?_  
            “You hadn’t eaten very much this afternoon,” he commented as he took the washcloth from her nerveless hands and carefully wiped her face.  He stood and tossed the soiled cloth into the small laundry hamper in the corner of the room and then knelt beside her again to lift a fresh cup of hot mint tea to her lips.  “Are you feeling very well?”  
            She coughed as she choked down a mouthful of tea and took the cup from him.  “I felt a little unwell this morning; it’s nothing.”  She forced herself to take another swallow of tea as her world reeled off kilter around her at the thought of _her_ Ezio being the same man who was now currently killing everyone in her blood line.  _Where does that leave me?_  
            “Thank you for your hospitality, you have been very kind, but I should probably go.  I’m sorry I wasn’t a better guest.”  She set the tea down on the floor beside her and tried to get up.  Altaïr rose to his feet in one smooth, fluid movement and reached down to help stand.  
            “I think you should stay,” he said softly.  “I’ll call for some soup and you can nap on my bed for a little while and then we’ll see how you feel after you’ve rested and eaten.”  
            “That’s not necessary,” she protested.  “Really-”  
            “I can’t have you going off alone when something might be wrong,” he interrupted her with a firm shake of his head.  “What if you become ill and there’s no one to take you to the infirmary until it’s too late?  I promised Ezio I’d look after you while he’s away.”  He guided her over to the bed, arm locked in an iron grip around her waist.  “What would I tell him if something happened to you before you’ve even been married a month?”  
            “That he had the misfortune of marrying a stubborn woman,” she replied, laughing in an attempt to cover her growing unease.  
            “Unfortunately, I’ve been told that I’m a very stubborn and domineering man.”  His smile was lopsided as he deposited her on the bed.  “So you’ll just have to complain about me to your husband when he returns.”  
            “Who told you that?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her manners and she desperately needed a distraction from the encroaching chaotic darkness threatening to engulf her.  
            “Kadija, of course.”  He shrugged.  “She likes pointing out my flaws.  Ezio says that’s what sisters do.”  
            Taline bit her lip as she looked up at him.  She knew she should feel more afraid than she did in her current situation, aware of how much influence Altaïr possessed here, how his abilities inspired awe and respect among his fellow powerful Assassins, and even with her own strength, how _vulnerable_ she was in this room with him.  But while he treated her with some skepticism, he didn’t feel like a direct threat to her; he seemed to be honest when he referred to her as family, although she really had no idea what “family” even meant to him.  
            “Will Sirocco be upset if she finds out I slept on your bed?  I don’t want to cause any trouble for you,” she asked hesitantly, twisting her fingers together in her lap.  
            He cocked his head, brow furrowed in confusion.  “Why would she be upset?  
            She hitched her shoulder in an awkward shrug.  “She might get the wrong idea.  People like to spread nasty gossip, they don’t really care if it’s true.”  
            “There’s always nasty gossip about me going around.”  He crossed his arms across his chest, the gesture surprisingly defensive.  “Siro doesn’t care; she knows there’s never been anyone else.”  
            She blinked in surprise at the unspoken implication.  Altaïr was young, handsome, and probably fairly well off – if Ezio’s finances were anything to go by – she doubted that there was any shortage of women, or men, who would be eager to bed him.  _He rarely lets anyone but Sirocco touch him, mogliettina.  That’s just how he is._   Her entire body ached with cold and fatigue and his rooms were warm.  Augustine jumped up on the bed, purring like the engine of a motorbike, and aggressively rubbed his face against her side.  
            “Lay down and I’ll get an extra blanket to cover you,” Altaïr said encouragingly.  “You look a little pale.”  
            “Just for a little while,” she agreed as she curled up on her side.  His bed was soft, the bedding scented of hyssop and, ever so faintly, the tangy musk of sex; she recognized the scent of it from the bed she shared with Ezio.  Altaïr spread a thick, soft blanket over her and paused to briefly stroke the cat before heading back to his paperwork.  
            “Get some rest, I’ll wake you when Al Mualim arrives,” he told her.  
            She fell asleep before she could respond.


	4. Altaïr: what lies beneath

            Altaïr idly tapped his fingertips against the smooth surface of his dining table.  Really, he should have been finishing up his paperwork before Al Mualim arrived, but for some reason he couldn’t muster the will to complete that particularly tedious task, and the cat and his cousin’s wife afforded ample additional distraction.  He contemplated Taline as she slept on his bed, noting how she had seemed to have paled and lost weight since Ezio left on contract.  _She can’t be pining for him; they hardly know each other_.  He hoped she wasn’t sick.  
            He felt a faint pulse of magic, like a solitary heartbeat, and rose to his feet, immediately recognizing the harbinger of Al Mualim’s arrival.  He paused to cast a silence over Taline on his way to the door; she was clearly in need of rest and he doubted the Mentor would mind if she slept a little longer.  Al Mualim was waiting, hands folded over the head of his cane, when he opened the door.  
            “My apologies, Efendim,” he murmured with a respectful bow.  “I did not mean to keep you waiting.  Please, enter and be welcomed in my rooms.”  
            “I was not waiting long,” the Mentor replied as he stepped forward.  He stopped a few paces into the room, waiting for Altaïr to close the door and guide him.  “You are usually so prompt to my summons; it seems I have interrupted you.  Who is the woman sleeping in your bed?”  
            “Ezio’s wife, Taline.  Maria upset her and she came to see me; Ezio’s absence has not been easy for her.  I put her to bed because she was unwell and I knew you would soon arrive.”  He was mildly surprised Al Mualim had not immediately identified Taline, the list of women who weren’t Sirocco that he would allow to sleep in his bed was very short.  He guided the elderly man to the armchair he had moved closer to the brazier of hot stones the elves had recently refilled and helped him settle, adjusting cushions and propping his cane against the side of the chair – within easy reach, should Al Mualim need it – the Mentor did not appreciate having to ask for assistance or otherwise acknowledge the limitations his lost sight put upon him.  “I hope you do not mind that she’s here, Efendim.”  
            “Not at all, she seems like a nice enough girl; very handy and eager to please.”  
            “Yes, Efendim,” Altaïr replied softly as he unfolded a lap blanket, made from a warm blend of angora, cashmere and silk.  The Mentor accepted the blanket with obvious pleasure, smoothing his hand over a lingering crease as Altaïr tucked it over his legs.  
            “Is this new?” he asked, rubbing the material between his fingers.  “The fabric feels different.”  
            “Yes, Efendim,” Altaïr replied, handing the Mentor a cup of hot mint tea sweetened with honey.  “The cat has claimed my other one; it’s all snagged and full of cat hair now, but it keeps him from claiming anything else so it seemed a small enough sacrifice.”  
            Al Mualim chuckled dryly.  “Practical as always, my child.  I want to see it, once it awakens.  It has been a long time since I held a cat.”  He turned his head towards the bed and Altaïr saw a faint glint of gold in the Mentor’s milky-white eyes as he studied the sleeping girl and her feline companion.  “What do you think of her – your cousin’s new wife – all the other Masters can tell me is that she is quite attractive; I want to hear your thoughts.”  
            “She-” Altaïr hesitated, selecting his words with care “-she’s _interesting_.  We hardly know anything about her, only superficial things.  I don’t think she meant to confide in Ezio, she’s too used to hiding and intentionally goes unnoticed – she’d have made a good shadowbroker – but she’s smart enough to play whatever hand she’s dealt.”  
            “Interesting,” Al Mualim repeated thoughtfully.  “A far more useful description than ‘pretty.’  Has she admitted to you what or whom she was running from?”  
            “No, Efendim, she has not,” he replied, seating himself on the area rug and leaning his elbows on his knees.  The rug was soft and thick, expertly woven, with dozens of details he never would have thought to look for on his own; he’d gotten it from Kadija when she’d replaced it with a nicer one in her own rooms.  The pattern and colors were not objectionable.  
            “She avoids all questions about that part of her life.”  He tilted his head to the side as he studied Taline – she looked even younger asleep than she did awake, small and slight as a child.  Knowing Ezio as he did, he could see why she appealed to him so strongly, and he had a fair idea of what might have provoked Ezio so much he had been willing and eager to kill the girl’s entire family, but he would never ask.  He doubted anyone would; it wasn’t their place.  
            Al Mualim hummed thoughtfully.  “You said she was unwell?”  
            His gaze snapped from Taline to the Mentor.  “Yes.  We were discussing Ezio’s contract and she became violently ill; it seems she was unaware of the full terms.  She’s hardly eaten all day – she only vomited some fluid, not very much, and dry-heaved several times more – when I commented on it she told me she’d been ill this morning as well.  I made her lay down and ordered her a dish of lentil soup, but she fell asleep before it came; she seemed quite fatigued.”  
            “Ill in the morning and tired by afternoon,” Al Mualim murmured thoughtfully as he studied Taline’s sleeping form, the slight curve of his lips almost hidden by his snowy beard.  “How little experience you have with women, my child.”  
            Altaïr frowned at the comment and shot a questioning look at the older man.  “Efendim?”  
            Al Mualim took a long drink of tea.  “Look closer, Altaïr, tell me what you see.”  
            Altaïr turned his attention back to Taline and willed his gaze into the second sight.  Taline glowed a pale shade of aqua – like most Cathari – the flow of her magic slow and smooth.  He exhaled slowly and pushed the sight further, willing himself to see deeper.  The color of Taline’s aura intensified, fractured, revealing a kaleidoscopic mosaic of nearly identical shades of aqua, shifting and swirling in a myriad of complex and changing patterns.  He could see golden filaments of magic running all throughout the walls and floor, particles of the same golden energy swirling in the air around them like dust motes, and he could feel the effervescent tingle of it along his nerves, in his lungs when he breathed, tickling like the bubbles in carbonated water.  He wasn’t used to pushing his sight to this depth; it was making him a little dizzy and lightheaded.  He released it with a gasp and gulped a hungry lungful of air and then another.  
            “I still don’t understand, Efendim.  What was I supposed to see?”  
            “Tell me what you saw, Altaïr.”  
            He raked his teeth along the edge of his bottom lip and toyed with one of the buckles strapping his blades to his forearms as he struggled to find the find the words to express what he’d seen.  
            “It was like looking at a fish,” he said slowly.  “At first her aura just looked smooth and uniform, but when I looked deeper I could see all the tiny variegated scales that made up the whole, and they were all moving, like currents in a stream.  There were so many patterns, but I don’t know what they mean.”  
            “Tell me, Altaïr, can you always see the colors moving in Eagle Vision?” Al Mualim asked him softly, something strange and guarded in his tone.  
            “Yes,” he hesitated.  “But it’s gotten easier, I can see things more clearly.  Everything else is less distorted when I use the sight.”  
            The expression on the Mentor’s face at his response was inscrutable and jarring, but it only lasted a moment before it was gone and he wondered if it wasn’t just a trick of the light.  
            “Your talents are remarkable,” Al Mualim finally said.  The Mentor smiled as he turned his gaze back to Taline.  “Suffice to say, your cousin will receive some eagerly anticipated news soon, insha’allah.”  
            Altaïr frowned as he puzzled over Al Mualim’s enigmatic comment before he shrugged it off; it wasn’t his place to pry, Ezio would tell him soon enough if it was something he needed to know.  
            “More tea, Efendim?” he offered politely as he stood.  
            “Yes, thank you.”  Al Mualim handed over the cup and saucer distractedly, attention still focused on Taline.  “She’s stirring; subdue her.  We have another matter to discuss before she wakes.”  
            Taline had shifted with a sleepy murmurer, jostling the cat who then jumped down from the bed and rippled his thick coat with an offended shudder.  Altaïr strode over to the bed and brushed the very tips of his fingers across Taline’s forehead as he cast a deep sleep over her.  
            “She will sleep until awakened, Efendim,” he reported softly.  “What matter are we to discuss?”  He unsheathed his blade and refilled the cup he was holding which he then carefully placed in the Mentor’s hands.  
            “I have received word that one of our brethren has fallen, a Master of Jaipur, Viaan Rajasthan – I believe you were acquainted?” Al Mualim replied briskly, lifting the hot tea to his lips.  
            Altaïr blinked.  “Yes, we were acquainted; he was very good, extremely professional.  The Order will feel his loss.”  Viaan had been two years older than him – brutally efficient, charming and world-weary – they had trained together, of course, but they also spent time together socially at the coffeehouse in the village; they had been friends.  He shrugged away his shock and grief – now was not the time for it – he would mourn his friend later, in private.    
            “What happened to him?” he asked, careful that his tone betray no emotion.  To say one had ‘fallen’ was Assassin-speak for when a member of the Order died while not on a contract.  
            “Poisoned,” Al Mualim replied grimly.  “By his lover.”  
            Altaïr processed the information silently, reminding himself to unclench his jaw.  He and Viaan had discovered that they both enjoyed the same types of books when they first met and had taken to reading together, an activity they had continued over the years, taking turns selecting their next book and sending the other a copy.  Their correspondence was peppered with thoughts and comments on the book they were currently reading.  There was a copy of _The Man in the Iron Mask_ that he’d had translated into Rajashthani, wrapped and ready to be posted to Viaan, sitting on his desk; they had almost finished _The Jungle Book_ – Viaan’s last selection – they had both thoroughly enjoyed _The Three Musketeers_ and were excited to read its sequel.  His throat felt tight and there was that all too familiar horrible hollow ache in his chest at the thought of never posting that package.  
            “It seems she was jealous,” Al Mualim continued when Altaïr remained silent.  “There was quite a bit of speculation as to his relationship with one of his female students-”  
            “Unfounded, I’m sure,” Altaïr bit out.  “Viaan was not that sort of person, he would never subvert his role as a mentor in that manner.”  
            Al Mualim tipped his chin in the barest of nods.  “You are correct, of course.  The girl is his sister – his father’s daughter – but their familial relationship was not publicly acknowledged and it seems that they… _encouraged_ … speculation that they were lovers, although the reasons behind that charade are unclear.  The lover meant to poison both of them – Viaan and Tārā – but the sister survived.  The lover used a very complex and unique poison, one we haven’t seen before.  Quite brilliant.”  Al Mualim paused to take a sip of his tea.  “Naturally, the Order is currently trying to extract the recipe from her – although it seems those efforts are not progressing as smoothly as we would like.”  
            “His sister is lucky to have survived,” Altaïr murmured, eyes drifting to the package on his desk.  
            “Indeed,” the Mentor agreed.  “But she is not undamaged by the experience – she has taken the loss very badly.”  There was another long pause before Altaïr realized that Al Mualim was waiting for a response from him.  
            “I’m sorry to hear that, Efendim,” he replied, watching Augustine aggressively rubbing his face against his časbaks; sometimes his cat did the most inexplicable things.  “What will be done with her?”  
            Something almost like a smile curved Al Mualim’s lips.  “Her Grandmaster is transferring her here once she has convalesced; I plan to assign her to you.”  
            “To me?” Altaïr repeated warily; he’d begun to suspect as much, but the Mentor’s reasoning escaped him.  
            “I want you to work with her, see if she can be salvaged.  She was a very promising prospect before Viaan’s death.”  Al Mualim handed his empty teacup to Altaïr.  “The cat is up; bring him here.”  
            “Why to me?  Surely one of the others would be better suited, I’m not exactly known for being good with people,” he replied, setting the empty cup on the tea tray and leaning over to scoop up Augustine.  The cat meowed in protest but hung in his arms like a limp rag.  “Hush, August,” he scolded him.  “Behave yourself, you lazy brute.”  
            “Selim doesn’t train women well – he’s too soft on them, doesn’t hold them to the same standards as his male students, unintentionally, I’m sure – Ibrahim won’t take a student who can’t earn and Kadija is already spread thin – she just doesn’t have the time that Tārā will need.”  Al Mualim beckoned for him to put the cat in his lap.  
            “As you desire, Efendim.  I will see Al Mualim’s will done,” Altaïr murmured as he set the cat in the Mentor’s lap.  Augustine melted like a puddle and looked up at him with indolent celadon eyes.  _He’s going to try to claim that blanket too_ , Altaïr thought with a bolt of annoyance.  
            “He’s certainly well nourished,” Al Mualim commented, sinking a bony hand into Augustine’s plush winter coat.  
            “He has a stocky build,” Altaïr replied defensively.  “He’s really quite muscular.”  He frowned as Augustine settled into Al Mualim’s lap like a gelatinous mound of fur.  He clenched his teeth; he had no intention of admitting that his cat was, in fact, getting rather fat.  
            Al Mualim sniffed disbelievingly.  
            “Wake the girl,” he commanded as he scratched underneath the cat’s chin; Augustine responded with a loud rumbling purr and the cat’s supremely self-satisfied look was mirrored on the Mentor’s face as well.  
            He bit back an aggrieved sigh and cast the release as he strode to the bedside; Taline stirred with an inarticulate murmur when he gently touched the tips of two fingers to her forehead.  
            “Taline?  Al Mualim is here,” he told her softly, barrier already cast in case she instinctively lashed out upon awaking in unfamiliar surroundings.  
            Taline bolted upright, hand flying up to smooth her hair.  She blinked up at him for a moment, confused and disoriented before her gaze fell on Al Mualim.  “My apologies Efendim, I did not mean to be so rude.  Have you been here long?” she said in an anxious rush, voice thickened and raspy with sleep.  
            “No apologies necessary, child,” Al Mualim replied as he stroked the cat in his lap.  “You need rest in your condition.”  
            Taline blanched.  “My condition?” she squeaked and struggled to rise as Altaïr clasped a supportive hand around her elbow.  
            “Have you told your husband yet?  I’m sure he would welcome the news.”  The Mentor’s smile was somehow both enigmatic and smug.  
            “Told Ezio what,” Altaïr asked, glancing from Taline to Al Mualim.  
            “That she’s carrying his child, of course,” the old man replied softly.  “You are, aren’t you?”  Taline averted her face as an intense blush spread across her cheeks.  Altaïr stiffened as he processed the information, the significance of Taline’s symptoms clicking into place – she looked wan, bordering on gaunt, because the child she was carrying made her feel ill, anxious for Ezio’s protection and support.  
            “I believe so,” she murmured, pressing her free hand against her abdomen.  “I wasn’t sure yet, and I wanted to be certain before I said anything.  How did you know?”  
            “Intuition and years of experience observing breeding women,” Al Mualim replied.  
            Taline glanced uncertainly at him for confirmation and Altaïr shrugged; he wasn’t sure how the Mentor had known either, but he suspected it had something to do with the Order’s second sight.  
            “Please don’t say anything, Efendim,” Taline murmured.  “I want Ezio to hear about our child from me, when he returns.”  
            “Of course, of course,” Al Mualim readily agreed.  “Your secrets are safe with us, Khanum.”  
            “Your title, as a wife of a Master,” Altaïr explained at her confused look.  “Has no one been calling you that all this time?”  
            “No,” she replied slowly.  “A few of my students have called me ‘begum’ and from time to time I’ve been called ‘sitt’ by others, but no one has called me ‘khanum.’”  
            Altaïr felt his muscles stiffen in indignation; he had very little patience for the many small slights directed towards his family.  His wroth when he recently caught a group of fidā'ī gossiping about Maria’s virtue had been fearsome, and Selim still liked to tell the story of what had happened to the last Assassin foolish enough to call Kadija a qaḥba within his earshot, even though _that_ particular incident had happened almost ten years ago.  
            “Peace, Altaïr,” Al Mualim murmured.  “It is perfectly understandable that our brethren are uncertain as to how they should address your cousin’s wife; it is almost unthinkable for a Master to have married outside the Order.”  
            Taline, he noticed, had flushed at Al Mualim’s reference to her marriage being ‘unthinkable.’  
            “You should try to eat the soup I ordered for you,” he told her softly.  “It’s very nourishing – it’ll be good for you and your baby.”  
            “What kind is it?” she asked as she settled at the table before the tray the elves had set for her.  
            “Lentil, with grilled eggplant and fresh spinach,” he replied, lifting the lid from the tray.  
            “That’s a very specific thing to order,” Al Mualim observed as Augustine spread himself out over his lap.  
            “Sakineh suffered terribly with stomach complaints when she was carrying the twins,” he explained awkwardly.  “This soup was the only thing she could keep down.  I thought if Taline was ill with similar symptoms, it would be good for her too.”  
            Taline looked up at him sharply.  “Did you know as well?”  
            “No.”  Her gaze, and the Mentor’s silence, made him uncomfortable, as though a further explanation was not only expected, but required.  “You vomited only fluid, you said you had been ill as well this morning.  It seemed logical that you were suffering stomach complaints and this soup has been good for that in the past; Malik fed it to Sakineh when she was ill and my mother fed it to Kadija and me when we were ill as children.”  
            “Such a memory,” Al Mualim murmured approvingly before he turned his attention to Taline.  “Altaïr tells me you are having some difficulty with your new sister-in-law?”  
            Altaïr quickly ducked his head and feigned absorption in the swirling paisley design of the rug beneath his feet.  The heat of Taline’s accusatory gaze swept over his skin.  
            “It was nothing, Efendim, she murmured.  “As you know, I haven’t been feeling well and I’m sure I overreacted.”  
            Altaïr chewed at the inside of his cheek and held his silence.  He didn’t doubt that Taline probably had reacted more strongly to Mari’s spite than she otherwise would have, had she not been feeling unwell, but that by no means absolved his cousin of fault.  He was sorely tempted to leave it to Ezio to deal with his prickly sister, but Ezio would not return for at least another week and Mari’s spitefulness towards Taline could not be allowed to continue unchecked until then.  He wished he could still turn to Malik for this sort of thing; Malik had always known just how to handle things in the family.  He had never felt very capable when it came to problems that couldn’t be solved with a blade.  
            “It is as you say,” Al Mualim replied enigmatically.  Augustine grunted and contorted himself into a new position on the Mentor’s lap.  “How do you find your students?”  
            “I like them very much Efendim,” Taline replied, stirring her soup slowly to cool it.  “Most are very rewarding to work with.”  
            “And the ones who are not rewarding?” Altaïr couldn’t help asking.  
            “Are challenging, but that is not necessarily a bad thing.”  
            “No, it is not,” Al Mualim agreed.  “Altaïr, come retrieve your cat.  I have enjoyed our visit, but I must be going.”  
            “As you desire, Efendim,” he murmured as he removed Augustine from the old man’s lap.  The cat squawked raspily in protest.  “May I escort you?” he inquired as he helped Al Mualim rise and handed him his cane.  
            “No, thank you, my child.  That is not necessary,” Al Mualim replied, patting his shoulder affectionately.  “I am perfectly capable of finding my way around this place without assistance, and you still have a guest to attend to.”  
            “Please don’t decline on my account, Efendim,” Taline protested, rising from the table.  “I can easily go.”  
            Altaïr frowned at the bowl of uneaten soup.  “No.  You will stay and finish your soup.”  
            Al Mualim chuckled.  “You had better do as he says, our Altaïr can be quite a despot.”  
            He scowled at the carpet as Taline giggled.  
            “A benevolent one, I’m sure,” she gurgled.  
            He bit back a sigh as Augustine sinuously wound his body around his ankle.  _He’ll actually trip me one day_.  He carefully stepped around the cat and opened the door for Al Mualim.  
            “Safety and peace, Efendim,” he murmured.  
            “And upon you as well, my child,” Al Mualim replied, reaching up to pat his cheek.  “You might want to have a talk with your cousin about respecting her brother’s wife.”  
            “Yes, Efendim.”  Now he _definitely_ couldn’t put it off on Ezio.  
            “You don’t have to do that,” Taline said as soon as he shut the door behind the Mentor.  
            He sighed.  Augustine yowled; he was standing next to his empty dish.  
            “Yes, you’re right, August.  You need to be fed,” he told his disgruntled cat.  He glanced over at Taline.  “And you – eat your soup.”


	5. Ezio: symptoms

            Ezio caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the dingy sink as he wiped the water from his face.  He hated the beard he’d reluctantly allowed to grow in; it made him look haggard, _old_.  He couldn’t wait to shave it off when he no longer needed the anonymity it provided.  He grimaced at the mirror and made his way back to his room, surprised at how eager he was for the solitude.  The other fidā'ī had gone out for the evening – dining, dancing, and probably whoring – he was ashamed at the slight pang of envy he had at the thought.  The contract had been brutal so far, grim hunting and mindless slaughter; he’d never felt so unclean and tightly wound.  He’d always turned to women to relieve his stress on difficult contracts – having sex made him feel better, less dead inside – and this contract was increasingly becoming more and more difficult for him without his usual coping mechanisms.  
            The extent of the contract itself had come as a surprise.  He’d known there would probably be some additions to the list Taline had given him to ensure the property acquired offset the cost, but it seemed that the unusual length of time in drafting the contract had been spent cataloging the full extent of Taline’s family’s holdings and every last individual who might have a claim on them.  The contract was set, sealed in blood and unbreakable, before he realized how drastically Al Mualim had altered the terms and there wasn’t anything for him to do but bow his head and accept his duty or betray his vows.  He understood, without it having to be said, that he was being punished for his choice of wife, for marrying a stranger and bringing her inside the Order’s walls without permission.  The Mentor was getting his revenge.  _Al Mualim’s will be done_.  The words had nearly caught in his throat, but he had said them nonetheless.  He wasn’t sure how Taline would react if she found out, but it couldn’t be undone; there wasn’t any point to telling her, not really.  
            A groan slid past his lips as he shrugged off his robes and rubbed the heel of his palm across the front of his trousers; he was already half hard.  _Cazzo.  I haven’t jerked off this much since I started having sex_ , he thought as he unfastened his belt.  He didn’t draw it out, breath rattling harshly in his throat as he stroked.  His orgasm was just barely satisfactory and the evidence of his activities was easily vanished with a well-practiced flick of his wrist.  _I’m getting way too good at that spell_.  He sprawled across his narrow bed and cracked the seal of Taline’s latest letter.  
            His wife’s written Arabic was almost shockingly poor, rife with awkward grammar and misspellings, especially considering how fluid her spoken Arabic was.  It reminded him of his German.  Her letter in Arabic was short; there was a second, longer, letter written entirely in Armenian folded inside the first.  She had done that a few times – written to him in Armenian – charming, chatty letters full of updates about the going-ons at Alamūt, purposefully impersonal, mindful that someone else would have to read it to him.  Narek, a Veteran based in Beirut, had translated the others, sometimes chuckling at Taline’s humor and witticisms in one of her native languages.  It made Ezio wonder if she seemed so shy in part because her Arabic wasn’t as fluent as everyone assumed.  _I liked your letter.  I miss you so much_ , she had written to him in Arabic.  He brushed the parchment she’d written those words on against his lips as his other hand slid towards his groin.  _Jesus Christ, I’m pathetic_.  He shuddered at his release with her name on his lips.  


            Narek’s face lit up the next morning at the sight of another long letter from Taline.  
            “Your bride is delightful, Effendi.  It must be torture to be separated from her so soon in your marriage,” Narek commented with a smile as he unfolded the letter Ezio had handed to him.  “It’s such a pity you don’t speak our language, I’m afraid some of her charm gets lost in translation.”  
            Ezio shifted his weight and hummed noncommittally.  “I’ll have to let her teach me then.”  
            He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about Narek’s regard for Taline.  On the one hand, he was hungry for other Assassins’ approval and acceptance of his wife, and Narek’s admiration was gratifying to hear, but on the other hand, he was jealous and possessive of her affection and attention and didn’t like or want any other man admiring her _too much_.  It was a tricky balance.  
            Narek chuckled.  “We’re in Armenia, Effendi.  You could start learning some here and surprise her with it when you get back.”  
            “Yeah maybe-”  He stopped short at the change in Narek’s expression.  “What is it?  What’s the matter?”  
            “She’s one of _them_ , isn’t she?” Narek asked in a strangled whisper, fingers crumpling Taline’s letter, still clenched in his hand, as his eyes narrowed.  
            _Cazzo._ White-hot warning flashed across his nerves and his blades hummed with magical charge.  From the look on Narek’s face, he wasn’t sure pulling rank was going to be enough to deescalate the situation before it got physical.  He decided to play dumb.  
            “It took you this long to figure out she’s Armenian?” he parried with a forced chuckle.  
            “She’s Cathari.”  
            In the two weeks after they were married but before he left on contract, Ezio was impressed at how careful Taline had been to not give herself away, but she slipped from time to time when she was talking to him.  Usually it was only small things – strange word choices or odd offhand comments – things that could easily be explained by the different grammar structures of her native languages.  _She must have said something incriminating in that letter.  Cazzo_.  
            He didn’t even bother trying to look surprised.  “So?”  
            Narek stared at him, hard-faced and breathing noisily through his nose.  Ezio primed a barrier and waited for a response with a blandly impersonal half smile.  
            “My best friend – like a brother to me – was killed by a Bard.  Two years ago.  Did you know that, Effendi?”  
            “No, I did not.  I’m sorry for his loss,” Ezio murmured, low and soothing.  Narek was staring into the distance with haunted empty eyes; he didn’t seem to have heard him.  
            “He was ripped apart from the inside out, just shredded.  There was nothing I could do.  Nothing the medics could do.  He didn’t die straight away, it took a bit.  I had to give him mercy, before the end,” Narek whispered.  
            “Taline is not a Bard, Veteran,” Ezio said softly, reminding Narek of their respective ranks, of the obedience and respect owed to him as a Master.  “She’s just a young woman, barely more than a girl.  They aren’t all the same.”  
            “They’re monsters,” Narek spat.  
            “And what are we?”  
            “I am no monster!”  
            “I am,” Ezio said softly, the admission almost surprising him, but then again, not so much.  Part of him had known for quite a while.  “Maybe you’re not – not yet, at least – but I am.  All Masters are.  Our lives are bought with the lives of others.  You should have become dā‘ī if you’d rather keep your humanity.”  
            Narek was staring at him.  “Did you know?”  
            “That she’s a Cathar?”  He shrugged.  “Yeah, I knew.  It doesn’t matter to me.”  
            Narek started breathing noisily through his nose again.  “You brought her to Alamūt?”  
            “Yes, I did.”  He leveled a hard look at his companion.  “We married in the Assassin way – do you want to see the scar? – and I presented her to Al Mualim.”  
            “And Al Mualim knows what she is?” Narek bit out.  
            “Yes.  Al Mualim is not concerned that she poses any threat to the Order; he _personally_ entrusted my wife with teaching the young children.  And while I am away on contract, she is under the protection of my cousin, _Altaïr_.”  He hated Narek’s quick double blink at Altaïr’s name, the immediate awe his cousin’s reputation inspired.  _Aunt Aaliyah knew what she was doing_ , he reflected wryly.  His aunt’s refusal to ever name Altaïr’s father only added to his legend.  
            “They say he is very much like his mother, the Jackal.  Is this true, Effendi?” Narek asked, tone carefully neutral.  
            Ezio tensed slightly.  When he was growing up in Italy he had thought the dark whispers about his aunt, which had persisted long after her death, were fueled by his father and uncle’s dislike of his mother’s family.  His mother had always refused to acknowledge any truth to the things said against her younger sister.  _Nothing but jealousy and lies_ , she would snap, eyes flashing and furious.  He hadn’t fully appreciated how dark Aaliyah’s reputation and legacy really were until the last few weeks he had spent at Alamūt – without his mother there to chill people’s tongues – around Assassins old enough to have really known her.  They called her _The Jackal_ , after Anubis – the jackal-headed god of the ancient Egyptians – because she brought death wherever she went.  They told him that she killed gracefully, that she made it beautiful, and even though she herself had died at only twenty-eight, she had one of the highest confirmed kill counts in the Order’s living memory.  She was a legend.  Altaïr had inherited her dark glamour, not only because he was her son, but also because he was so very much like her.  A week before he left for Armenia, Selim had cautioned him, obliquely, to keep an eye on his cousin.  _Aaliyah loved him deeply, this is true, but there was no softness in her.  I think Altaïr suffered greatly at her hands_.  Selim had refused to elaborate when Ezio pressed him.  
            “I’m not the best person to ask, I was only a child when she died; I don’t remember much about her,” he replied carefully, which wasn’t – strictly speaking – entirely true.  He remembered that she had frightened him, a little.  He remembered how uncomfortable her mere presence had made the adults around him – except for his mother, of course, who had delighted in visiting with her sinister sister – but most of all, he remembered how much she loved Altaïr, how much happier Altaïr and Kadija had been when she was alive.  
            “But yes,” he continued softly.  “He is very much like his mother – Kadija too – and one of them is probably going to be the next Al Mualim.  My wife’s skill is further from that Bard than your skills are from theirs, and _you_ are no match for _either_ of my cousins.”  _Or me_.  
            Narek bowed his head.  “Yes, Effendi.”  He shifted his weight and fidgeted, seemingly trying to draw up the nerve to say something.  
            “Is there anything else?” Ezio finally asked, having grown impatient with waiting.  
            “It’s not a coincidence, you being the Master on this contract, even though you don’t speak a word of Armenian, and that your newly-wed Armenian wife is also Cathari, is it, Effendi?  What’s her connection to those we’re hunting?” Narek asked cautiously.  
            _Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph too, it took him long enough._   Honestly, he was genuinely surprised more of the fidā'ī on this contract weren’t at least somewhat suspicious as to why he was the assigned Master – but then again, they probably did have their suspicions, and were smart enough to not say anything to him about it.  Taline was the most obvious and logical reason for him to have been assigned as the Master, which meant that he’d have to be extra vigilant that his real reason behind the contract remain unknown; the high body count helped obscure that, at least.  
            “What makes you think there’s any connection?” Ezio parried with a deceptively negligent shrug, mentally cursing himself for his carelessness.  “Perhaps Al Mualim merely saw an opportunity to test me, to make sure my loyalty isn’t swayed at all by my wife’s heritage.  He’s sadistic like that, you know.”  
            “ _Heritage?_ ” Narek repeated incredulously.  “Your wife is Armenian and a Cathar, she’s probably from Yerevan, or very familiar with it, based on what she writes in her letters-”  
            “So?”  
            “So… she has to know at least _some_ of these targets.  What are you going to tell her if she asks about one of them?  What will you say when her letters get returned as undeliverable because the intended recipient is dead?”  
            Ezio swallowed shakily.  He hadn’t thought that far ahead.  _Our Lady of Sorrows, she’s going to find out_.  He felt sick.  
            “My wife knows better than to ask me those sorts of questions,” he responded coolly.  _I hope._  
            Narek shook his head, gaze tinged with awe and pity.  “You were serious when you said Al Mualim has a sadistic side then.  That’s a lot of pressure to put on a newly forged marriage.  Did you piss someone off?”  
            “You could say that.”  He huffed a reluctant laugh.  “I didn’t seek approval of my choice before I married her.  Ours was an… _abbreviated_ … courtship.”  
            “You are either very brave, or completely mad, Effendi.”  
            “Yeah.  I know.”  He looked searchingly at Narek.  “This contract… how are you and the others holding up?  Anything I should know about?”  
            Narek shrugged and looked everywhere else to avoid his eyes.  “We’re all professionals.”  
            “Good,” he replied, a bit more brusquely than he’d meant to sound.  He turned and strode away to cover his embarrassment; he’d already left the boarding house before he remembered that Narek still had Taline’s letter.  


            He found Taline’s letter, along with a separate sheet of parchment with Narek’s Arabic translation, on his bed when he returned later that evening.  It was a kind gesture, perhaps meant as an apology for speaking out of turn.  The other fidā'ī were still out, pursuing their after dinner amusements.  He couldn’t wait to read what Taline had written, but his robes were slightly singed and he reeked with the acrid scent of burnt hair.  _Shower first, you savage, then you can read her letter_.  One of Taline’s cousins had put up quite a fight; he _hated_ being set on fire.  He collected his supplies before slouching out of his room to the shower at the end of the hall.  The water was blissfully hot.  
            Back in his room he drew a satisfyingly thick black line through another name on his list and then dug through his rucksack for the unguents he’d picked up from Asad before he left Alamūt.  The burn salve stung when he applied it to his cheek as the damaged tissue knit back together and smoothed out.  The salve left no scar.  _Magic is a glorious thing_.  He smiled as he ran his fingers over his healed cheek and smooth jaw; a swath of his beard had gotten burnt before he extinguished himself so he’d shaved the rest.  _At least getting set on fire is a good excuse to get rid of that beard_.  He propped Narek’s translation of Taline’s letter up against his pillow so he could read it while he finished treating his contusions and abrasions with the clove scented salve.  He smiled as he read her letter, hands moving slower and slower until he caught himself just sitting on the bed, hands resting uselessly in his lap while he read.  _Narek was right_.  Taline was delightful in her native language – charming, observant and clever – and he was falling head over heels in love with the girl who wrote him these letters.  Hopefully she would be this comfortable with him in person when he returned; he wanted to really get to know and understand her.  He wanted their relationship to be intimate, close, _perfect_ – everything his relationship with Cristina wasn’t.  He finished rubbing the salve into the last of his injuries and wiped his hands clean on the bedspread before rummaging through his rucksack again.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.  It was one of the photographs his sister had taken on his wedding day, printed on a metal plate and mounted in a slim leather case.  He eagerly popped the snap that held the case shut and folded back the cover.  
            Taline smiled shyly at him as she fidgeted, the neckline of her dress open just enough for him to catch a glimpse of his signature across the gentle swell of her breasts when she moved just so.  He’d said something to make her laugh, fingertips brushing her lips as she tried to hide it behind her hand, and Mari had scolded him, but it had been worth it.  He loved the way Taline nipped her bottom lip between her teeth before breaking into a slow shy smile, the way she quickly nipped her lip again mischievously while he was being scolded.  He shivered with longing at the memory of her mouth hesitantly opening to him as they kissed, the way she moaned his name against his skin when he touched her, the warmth of her body nestled against his after they made love, and her easy affectionate chatter.  He couldn’t wait to come home to her.


	6. Maria: intro Hiro

            The taste of the cleric’s polyjuice potion lingered on her tongue, bitter and biting; it reminded her of grapefruit juice so sour she could practically feel it shriveling the enamel off of her teeth.  The servant escorting her towards her target was silent, bordering on sullen, and she couldn’t help but feel relieved because she found the masculine timber of her altered voice unsettling, bordering on alarming.  She had only used polyjuice potion a few times, and always that of other women, never a man.  Her body felt alien to her, everything about it _off_ and _wrong_ and the coarse black robes the Jesuits wore were stiff and papery against her unfamiliar skin and she had to fight the nearly overwhelming urge to gulp down the vial of antidote strapped to her thigh just to feel right again.  
            She reminded herself that it was all part of the test.  
            The servant bowed with a respectfully indistinct murmur at the chapel’s side door and melted away before she could offer them the priest’s benediction.  Mari closed the doors behind herself and exhaled slowly as she turned towards her target.  
            He was kneeling on a velvet upholstered prie dieu before the altar, rosary clutched in his meaty hands, thick fingers rubbing the faceted jewel beads as he frantically muttered his prayers.  He glanced over his shoulder at her, saw only his priest approaching and turned back to his rosary, presumably to finish the decade.  _Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.  
_             “Bless me father, for I have sinned.  It has been a week since my last confession.”  
            _A pious man.  What have you done to deserve this contract?_ she wondered idly as she watched the target bow his head over his clasped hands, eyes lingering over the vulnerable back of his neck.  
            “What sins have you committed?” she murmured, momentarily distracted by the unfamiliar timber of her voice as she silently slid into position, hand tensed and ready to strike.  
            Only a few words tumbled from the man’s lips before her blade sank, swift and clean, into the back of his neck, at the base of his skull.  He was dead before his body hit the ground.  She watched her blade absorb the blood smeared across its surface, waiting for the untarnished gleam of bare metal before she sheathed it with a practiced flick of her wrist.  
            “I absolve you from your sins, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” she murmured as she genuflected and crossed herself.  _Amen._   She hesitated a moment before pocketing the target’s rosary.  
            She rose and exhaled sharply as she squared her shoulders, planning her next moves, her exit strategy.  She strode across the small chapel and opened one of the windows large enough for a person to pass through before leaving without a backward glance at the crumpled body resting nearly at the feet of the crucified Christ.  She closed the doors behind herself and lingered, trying to remember the path she needed to take out of the villa.  With a sudden flash of inspiration, she locked the chapel doors from the inside, channeling the required magic through her blades and ignoring the warning tingle that her actions were not synchronizing with the memory.  _I won’t be faulted for improvements_.  She walked purposefully down the hallway, making sure she was seen by a passing servant, and the synchronization warning strengthened to the pins and needles feeling of a numb limb.  She quickened her pace.  Suddenly her surroundings fractured into colorless ether.  _Too soon, I’m not finished yet_ , she thought with a jolt of alarm as she felt something hook behind her navel before violently yanking her backwards out of the memory.   
            “You intentionally deviated-” Altaïr seethed, eyes narrowed and furious.  He would have said more, but Al Mualim silenced him with a sharp gesture.  
            “Why did you lock the door?” Al Mualim asked conversationally, although his tone was decidedly frosty.  She felt a warning ripple of gooseflesh and watched the flex of muscle beneath Altaïr’s skin as he clenched his jaw and leveled his gaze at the far wall.  _No help from him then_.  
            “I wanted to make it seem like the target’s killer had been locked in the room with him, to make sure they thought he left out the window,” she replied quickly, cursing her voice for betraying her tension but relieved that she at least sounded, and felt, like herself again.  
            “An unnecessary, but rather _inspired_ addition,” Al Mualim commented dryly.  
            She flicked her eyes over to Altaïr; he still wasn’t looking at her.  It was a very bad sign.  
            “Yes, Efendim,” she murmured.  Her stomach was twisting, clenching; she sorely regretted that second cup of coffee she’d gulped down before dashing off to her trial.  
            “Why did you allow yourself to be seen?” Al Mualim asked, and there was an unmistakably merciless hardness to his voice that left her with no doubt that she’d failed this test.  
            “I, I,” she hesitated.  _It seemed like such a good idea at the time_ , but that wasn’t the sort of thing she could say to Al Mualim.  “I wanted to absolve the priest of any suspicion; I thought that if he was seen inside the house when the killer had obviously left through the window…”  She trailed off as Altaïr finally turned and looked at her and his expression chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.  His eyes – always so oddly light – were now more gold than brown she suddenly noticed.  _Like an eagle’s_.  
            “That was your fatal mistake,” Al Mualim informed her.  “The priest was already above suspicion.  Had you reviewed the contract’s dossier you would have known that the target was fanatically pious and spent hours praying with his priest.  It was the sight of the priest leaving so soon after arriving that drew suspicion.  You would not have returned from that contract.”  
            She closed her eyes at the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.  She _had_ read the dossier, and she _did_ remember that fact – now that she’d been reminded of it.  _Cazzata_.  
            “But you are not to be blamed,” Al Mualim continued, speaking more softly as his anger boiled over.  “The fault lies with your mentor, for his failure to provide you with training adequate to this task.”  Al Mualim turned to Altaïr, the air around them crackling, electric, with the elderly Mentor’s fury.  “You told me she was ready to rise to Mercenary!”  
            Altaïr had drawn to attention when Al Mualim begun reprimanding her, feet braced and shoulders squared, his expression an unblinking empty mask.  
            “My humblest apologies, Efendim.  I was mistaken,” he murmured, voice dutiful and low.  
            “I do not appreciate having my time wasted, Altaïr,” Al Mualim continued, stamping his cane against the tiled floor for emphasis.  The crack of hardwood against tile was as loud as a gunshot in the otherwise starkly silent room.  
            “That was not my intention, Efendim-”  
            “But it’s not his fault!” Mari burst out before she could stop herself.  She felt her face flame with what she knew was an ugly, blotchy flush when both men turned towards her.  “It’s my fault!  He gave me the dossier, he’s not to blame that I didn’t review it as carefully as I should have-”  
            “Silence!”  Al Mualim spoke the word with the force of a cracking kurbash and she felt a sudden crushing pressure engulf her vocal cords.  
            She opened her mouth to apologize but no sound passed her lips.  She saw Altaïr’s fingers twitch as he strengthened the silence he had cast, uncanny golden eyes narrowing in warning.  She gave the barest hint of a nod to show she understood.  
            “Can you not even teach your students their place, to show their superiors respect, Altaïr?” Al Mualim thundered.  “When they should hold their tongues?  Such behavior disgraces the Order.  Leave me.”  
            “As you desire, Efendim,” Altaïr murmured with a low bow.  Mari immediately followed suit, although she did so silently.  “Al Mualim’s will be done,” Altaïr added as he backed towards the door.  Al Mualim dismissed them with a sharp flick of his wrist.  Altaïr’s retreat was perfectly soundless; hers was not.  
            Altaïr released the silence he’d cast as soon as the doors closed behind them; she coughed at the sudden release of pressure on her vocal cords.  
            “I’m sorry-” she rasped.  
            “I’ve told you how important it is to memorize all of the information gathered before embarking on a contract,” he interrupted her, voice pitched low and furious.  “I’ve told you that _over_ and _over_ again, Maria!  Why don’t you _ever_ listen?”  
            “I _do_ listen,” she shot back, immediately defensive.  “But being able to think on my feet, improvise and adapt to shifting situations isn’t something I should be penalized for.  That’s what Assassins are _supposed_ to do.  That’s how we _survive_!”  
            “Being able to adapt and improvise does not excuse failing to adequately prepare for a contract, Maria.  You made _multiple_ fool-hardy mistakes that were obviously a result of not being familiar with the subject; mistakes that would have gotten you killed.  Mistakes that clearly illustrated a total lack of judgment or regard for the safety of your fellow Assassins.  Your performance was amateurish, sloppy, and, quite frankly, below what is expected of your current rank,” he seethed.  
            “That’s not-” she started; he cut her off with sharp gesture.  
            “You have shamed me before Al Mualim,” he continued savagely.  He wasn’t shouting at her – Altaïr had never been the loud type of angry, not like Ezio and her uncle – but she’d rarely seen him express this much emotion; the rational part of her brain was telling her she should be frightened, but her pride was getting in the way.  
            “I didn’t mean to!  It’s hardly your fault I messed up – if anyone was shamed in front of Al Mualim, it was me.  But I am sorry he took it out on you, okay?”  She reached for his shoulder; he violently flinched away from her touch.  
            “How do you still not understand how this works?  Are you simple?” he snarled.  “ _I_ vouched for your skills.  _I_ told Al Mualim that you were ready to rise to Mercenary.  What happened today, in the eyes of the Order, was not your failure, _it was mine_.  It is my judgment, my abilities as a mentor, that are now called into question.  That is not remotely _okay_.”  
            “Altaïr-”  
            “No.  This conversation is finished.  Get out of my sight before either of us says anything we might later regret.”  
            Her eyes were burning as she gave a shallow bow, but she somehow managed to wait until she had walked away before she started crying.  


            Mari listlessly prodded the bademjan in front of her with her fork.  Altaïr, as she expected, had not shown up for the evening meal.  _Probably off brooding somewhere by himself and being all obsessive and intense about it_.  She sighed and watched a mouthful of food slide off the tines of her fork and land back in the bowl with a wet splat.  The worst part was, he was right to be angry; her mistake was glaringly obvious, sloppy, _amateurish_.  It would almost certainly be a good long while before she was assigned another contract – Altaïr liked to withhold contract assignments when his students displeased him – even longer before she could reasonably even _hope_ for an opportunity to try for Mercenary again.  She heaved another sigh and jabbed her fork into her bademjan.  She hadn’t particularly felt like sitting by herself, but she’d spent so long crying in her room she was late to dinner and Zahra was already sitting with Isra.  She hadn’t felt up to subjecting herself to _that_ scandal mongerer, even for Zahra’s company, and so she was sitting alone, picking at food she really didn’t feel like eating and feeling sorry for herself.  Her period had started that afternoon, as if her day hadn’t been bad enough already.  
            “Is this seat taken?”  
            She dropped her fork as she jolted from her reverie and squinted up at the speaker.  _Fidā'ī, about my age, nice blade work_.  The interloper was tallish – taller than her, at least – with medium brown hair, muddy hazel eyes and an alarmingly wide mouth; she’d seen him around but hadn’t bothered to learn his name.  Apparently he interpreted her silence as an invitation and sat down across from her.  
            “I’m Hiro.”  He grinned toothily at her.  She picked up her fork.  
            “Hiro?” she repeated questioningly as she dragged the fork’s tines across the bademjan she really should have been eating.  “What sort of a name is that?”  
            “It’s what my friends call me,” he replied with an easy shrug.  “My mother named me Hiram, Hiram Vuković.  She has an odd sense of humor.”  
            “How so?” Mari asked, curious in spite of herself.  
            Her companion had taken a bite of bademjan and took his time chewing and swallowing; she suspected he was stalling to avoid answering her.  
            “My father didn’t come back from a contract before I was born.  She got my name from the bible; Hiram was the widow’s son,” he said with a slow smile and another shrug.  
            “You’re aptly named then,” she commented before taking a bite of bademjan; it slid down her throat like concrete when she swallowed.  Sometimes, she _really_ missed the food back in Italy.  _I’d kill for some coda di bue alla vaccinara right about now_.  
            “I’m Mari.”  
            “I know.  Maria Auditore, sister to Ezio Auditore Effendi, cousin to Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad Effendi and Kadija ibn-La’Ahad Effendi.  I’ve been wanting to make your acquaintance, but I was too shy, and then I saw you sitting here alone…”  He bit his bottom lip and studied his food.  She wasn’t sure if his sudden shyness was fabricated or genuine.  _Which is probably part of the reason why I failed my trial_.  The reminder of her inadequacy stung.  
            “Is that why you came to sit with me, because of whom I’m related to?” she asked tiredly and shifted in her seat.  Her tampon pinched inside her; she clenched her teeth and decided to ignore it.  “If so, it’s not going to do you much good; Ezio and Kadija are completely disinterested in who my friends are, and Altaïr isn’t speaking to me at the moment.”  
            “No-” he protested quickly.  
            _A little too quickly_.  
            “I came over because I think you’re pretty, and I want to get to know you better; I’ve heard a lot about you,” he murmured.  
            Her fork clattered against her dish when she dropped it before pushing the dish away to cross her arms on the table as she watched him.  “I’m no able Grable, no matter what Isra or Iskender say about me,” she informed him frostily.  
            Hiro hesitated, fork frozen midway between the dish and his mouth as he raised his eyebrows at her comment, and then choked back a sharp bark of laughter.  “Able Grable?  What’s that even mean?”  
            “A girl with low morals, you know, sexually available,” she replied, jabbing at her food.  “Which, by the way, I’m not, so go look to someone else for a cheap thrill.”  
            “That’s not, that’s not why I’m here,” he protested.  “I’ve seen you knocking it out on the dancefloor and I wanted to ask if you’d go dancing with me.”  
            “Like… on a date,” she asked suspiciously.  
            “Yeah, like on a date,” he replied with a slightly confused look.  “Is that… not allowed?”  
            She huffed a soft laugh and dropped her eyes to the tabletop.  “You want to date me?” she asked, tracing the grain of the wood, its surface worn smooth by years of use.  
            “I want to go _on_ a date with you.  We can start there.  If you’d like?”  
            “Why?”  
            Guys, generally, didn’t want to date her, and the ones who did were usually scared off by Ezio or Altaïr, or her mother.  She wasn’t quite sure how she should be acting, or even if he meant it and this wasn’t all some sick joke at her expense.  
            “Why not?”  He pushed his plate away and leaned forward, trying to catch her eyes.  “Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”  
            _Loads._   Her lower back ached and her abdominal muscles were cramping.  _Cazzo, I need to change my tampon soon_.  Sometimes, she really _loathed_ training whites.  
            “Where are you from, Hiro?” she asked, avoiding his question; she could think of all sorts of reasons he shouldn’t want to date her.  “I don’t know anything about you, but you seem to know a fair amount about me.”  
            He smiled and traced the woodgrain in front of her, just as she had been doing.  “I’m from Slunj, Croatia.  In the mountains, it’s very pretty.  I was sent here to train; Al Mualim assigned me to Ibrahim Effendi.”  
            “Do you like it?” she asked, stilted and uncomfortable.  “Training under Ibrahim Effendi, being at Alamūt, in general.”  She wasn’t used to making small talk with people she didn’t know – especially not attractive young men who might be interested in dating her – and was painfully aware of how awkward she sounded.  She wondered why he was bothering to talk to her.  
            “Do you?” he asked, lips curving slightly as his fingers brushed hers.  
            She shrugged.  “Sure.  I missed my brother when he was back in Italy, but I guess he’s here now, for the time being.”  
            “He’s recently married, I’ve heard,” Hiro murmured, leaning closer.  
            “Yes, his marriage is quite recent,” she cautiously confirmed, glancing up at him.  “What else have you heard?”  
            “That his pretty wife is a squib.”  He flicked his eyes up to momentarily meet hers before dropping them down to the table again.  “But she’s not, is she?  My friend’s younger brother says she sounds like a demon when she gets angry.  That her voice actually changes.  No squib can do things like that.”  He tapped his fingertips across the tabletop as he waited for her to give him some response.  
            She watched him, using her silence as a weapon, like how she’d seen Altaïr use it, to let the other person twist in the horrible hollow silence until things bubbled up to the surface to fill the emptiness with secrets and skeletons and half-forgotten old gossip.  Hiro rubbed the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip and looked away from her, gaze flitting across the room.  
            “They also say your cousin – Altaïr Effendi – is half Maraas; that you can see it in his eyes – that that’s the reason why they’re so strange and light.”  
            She rolled her eyes.  “Who says that?”  
            Hiro shrugged as he turned back to her.  “I don’t know.  People.  The person repeating it always says they heard it from someone else.  There’s never a source.  There’s so much gossip here.”  
            _They, they, they – always some unidentified they.  
_             “Yeah, there’s a lot of gossip around here; it’s corrosive, like acid.  They’ll start gossiping about you too, if you’re not careful,” she warned him as she rose from her seat.  “People will talk about you coming over to sit with me, if they haven’t started already.”  
            “And what will they say?” Hiro asked, smile unexpectedly mischievous and charming.  
            “That I’m an easy lay, or that you’re feigning interest to get something, maybe that your plan is to extort favors from my relatives in exchange for not causing a scandal.”  
            “Maybe,” he hummed.  “Or they’ll twitter like old hens that you’ve got me absolutely foxed.  That you’re my Venus in Furs and I’m gasping from your neglect.”  
            “And why would they say something like that?” she parried.  She’d almost forgotten how much fun it could be to flirt.  _He looks like he’d be fun to kiss_.  
            “Because I can’t help watching you,” he blurted out and then blushed.  
            “Oh,” she whispered, a blush matching his burning across her cheeks as well, as she fidgeted.  She _really_ needed to change her tampon.  She did kind of like him, but that would have to wait.  “I’m sorry, but I really do need to go.”  
            “May I walk you to your room?” he asked, fidgeting as his gaze skittered across the table’s smooth surface.  
            _He’s nervous_ , she realized.  _Or a very good actor.  Sweet-bloody-Jesus, when did I get so cynical?_   She nipped her teeth against her bottom lip.  
            “Okay, but you can’t come in,” she replied, nervously smoothing her robes.  He smiled and fell into step beside her, fingertips brushing the indent of her waist when they passed other assassins and she wished she wasn’t on her period so she could linger, walk with him longer.  He smelled delicious – warm male skin and hyssop, cedar and cinnamon.  
            “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Hiro?” she asked.  She liked the way his hand lingered at her waist.  “What’s your family like?”  
            “I have two older brothers, but I’m the only fidā'ī.  My oldest brother is vicīr and the other is dā‘ī, a carpenter by trade,” he replied softly.  
            “They must be proud of you.”  
            “They’re not.”  
            She nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise.  “How can they not be?  It’s not easy to become a fidā'ī, harder still to rise in rank.  Do they think you’re not rising fast enough?”  
            “They-” he shrugged and bit his lip.  “Your whole family are fidā'ī, aren’t they?”  
            “Nearly,” she confirmed.  “My Aunt Bernice was a medic, and Malik was a semi-retired shadowbroker.  Why?”  
            “A shadowbroker is still fidā'ī,” he pointed out and then sighed.  “It’s okay you don’t understand – and really how could you – your whole family serve as fidā'ī, of course they expect you to follow in their footprints.  But the rest of the Order, none of them want their children to become fidā'ī-”  
            “Why not?” she demanded hotly.  “It is an honor to safeguard the Order’s secrets, to protect her members from harm and to be an instrument that strikes fear into the kuffār so that our legend and safety grows-”  
            “And an honor to die in service to the Order, yeah I know.”  He shrugged.  “Most people would rather have their loved ones alive and with them than keeping company with the other honored dead though.”  
            She thought of Fredo and her father, of her childhood friend, Giulia, who went on a contract and never came back.  Her throat felt tight.  
            “This conversation got mighty _grim_ , didn’t it?” she asked lightly, smoothing her hair.  
            Hiro winced.  “Yeah, sorry.  I shouldn’t presume to know how your family feels about you being fidā'ī, or anything else really.”  
            “That’ll be a change,” she replied wryly.  “Everyone else thinks they know more about me than I do.”  
            “That must get very tiresome.”  
            His hand brushed across the small of her back and she liked the way it felt.  
            “Very tiresome,” she agreed softly.  Their footsteps on the tiled floor were hardly louder than the faint rustle of their robes as they moved.  His company was, _enjoyable_ , almost relaxing.  She felt like she should be more nervous; she wondered why she wasn’t.  
            “Will you go dancing with me Mari?” he asked again when they reached her door.  
            “Sure,” she replied, tipping her chin back with a flirty, teasing smile.  “You’d better know how to cook with helium or you won’t get a second dance.”  
            “And you’d better make sure you can keep up,” he teased her back.  “Or I’ll have to leave you in the dust.”  
            “I’d like to see you try.”  
            “That sounds like a challenge.”  
            “Maybe it is.”  
            “You’re on.”  
            She smiled.  “I should warn you, I like to win.”  
            “Of course you do.”  He returned her smile and took a hesitant half a step closer to her.  
            He smelled delicious – warm male skin and hyssop, cedar and cinnamon, breath rich with fragrant spices – and his fingers were curling around her upper arms, drawing her closer.  Her hands settled naturally against his chest.  She could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat against her palms.  She hadn’t been this close to another person in ages, not really.  There was the sparring she did in training, but that shouldn’t count as closeness when the other person was trying to hit you.  She hadn’t realized how much she missed simple human touch.  It felt good.  _Altaïr will have a fit_.  She felt like that should matter more than it did; she wondered why it didn’t.  
            Someone shuffled their feet, gave a faintly apologetic cough, and they sprang apart like startled deer.  The fidā'ī hurried soundlessly past them, face averted, features hidden in the deep shadow of their hood.  Hiro blushed and offered a sheepish smile as he rubbed the muscles along the back of his neck.  Her tampon felt dangerously spongey as she shifted her weight.  
            “Well then-” she was embarrassed at how breathless she sounded “-I guess this is good night.”  
            “Yeah.”  He sounded breathless too.  “Good night then.  We’ll talk tomorrow?  About dancing?”  
            “Yeah, sounds good,” she said as her heart fluttered against her ribs and she blindly groped for the latch to her door.  _Stop being ridiculous.  Don’t make a fool of yourself_.  “Good night, Hiro.”  She fluttered her fingers as she turned towards her room, and collided with her door because – _of course_ – the door stuck.


	7. Altaïr: memories

            He had been fourteen when Malik and Kadija came to his room to have ‘the sex talk’ with him.  Malik was eighteen, Kadija was seventeen and her blades were still freshly forged.  Malik had talked about _temptation_ and _desire_ and the importance of _mutual attraction_ and _respect_ , and he hadn’t understood.  Malik had repeated himself, phrasing it different ways, getting more and more frustrated, expression hardening and tone sharpening, when he still didn’t understand why he was being told these things.  Kadija finally huffed in annoyance and silenced Malik with an angry gesture.  She told him about instinct and the drive to hunt, the urge to conquer or be conquered, sacrifice and patience and understanding, the social norms and mores that accompanied courtship.  She explained the mechanics of sex and the body’s physiological responses to stimuli, voice even and soothing, indistinguishable from the tones she used when she helped him when he had trouble with his lessons.  She was clear, clinically precise, and he comprehended what he was being told, but he didn’t understand the emotional undertones of what she and Malik were trying to tell him.  He watched them exchange an inscrutable look as the silence stretched.  
            “Are you attracted to other boys?” Kadija had asked gently.  “It’s okay, you can tell us Aquila.”  
            He looked from Kadija to Malik and back again, confused and uncertain.  “No?”  
            He watched Malik’s shoulders slump slightly in relief.  Kadija was watching him with a speculative expression.  Her eyes had glittered like onyx.  
            “Do you like girls then?” she had asked.  
            He nervously licked his lips and shifted his weight.  He didn’t understand why he was being asked these questions, how he was supposed to respond, what he had done wrong.  
            “I don’t think so?”  
            “You don’t know?” Malik had demanded, tone incredulous.  
            He had just frozen, heart beating so hard and fast he thought he was going to be sick.  Malik was upset, maybe disappointed; he was doing something wrong.  
            “A word, Mal?”  Kadija’s face was hard.  He could tell she was angry, but not who with.  He didn’t understand.  
            They had retreated to the corner of his room to confer in furious whispers, heads tilted close together.  
            “What’s wrong with him?”  
            “Nothing is wrong with him!”  
            “It’s abnormal!”  
            “That’s just how he is, Mal, why does it matter?  Leave it alone.”  
            “It’s not natural!”  
            “He can hear you, you know,” Kadija had hissed, eyes hard and narrow.  
            A fast, florid flush had swept across Malik’s face as he clenched his teeth, fingers curling into fists.  “I’ve got to go.  I’ll see you tomorrow for training, Aquila.”  
            Malik hadn’t looked at him before he fled the room; the door closed loudly behind him in the silence.  
            “What’s the matter with me, Labiwa?”  
            Kadija had crossed the space between them in a few long strides and alighted beside him on his narrow bed.  “Nothing a thorough scrubbing wouldn’t fix.  You’re as dirty as an Inglizi.”  
            “He called me abnormal,” he had mumbled.  It hurt.  
            She wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a hard hug.  She smelled like hyssop and cedar.  He missed his mother so much, an aching hole in his heart that never fully closed; never healed.  He had leaned into Kadija and twisted a handful of her robes between his fingers, holding onto to her tightly, struggling to master the overwhelming fear that she too would abruptly be taken away.  
            “Mal just got upset, he didn’t mean anything by that.  He still loves you.”  
            “He called me unnatural.”  
            Kadija sighed.  “He became head of the family when Grandfather died last year.  You’re our responsibility now.  Mal wasn’t ready for that, it hasn’t been easy for him.”  
            “I’m a burden.”  His chest had felt tight and he had wanted to cry, to relieve some pressure from the emotions choking him, but he didn’t remember how.  
            “No.”  She hugged him tighter.  “You are _not_ a burden.  _Never_ a burden.”  
            His mother’s Ferrymen’s ring was on a chain around her neck.  He rested his head against hers and hugged her tightly.  


            Augustine pawed at his bottom lip.  Altaïr groaned and started petting him again.  
            “You are getting spoiled,” he informed his cat.  
            Augustine looked unimpressed.  
            “Spoiled and fat.”  
            Augustine blinked at him slowly and rested his paw on Altaïr’s lips.  He blew against his cat’s foot.  Augustine swished his tail but didn’t move his paw.  He blew again, harder this time.  Augustine lifted his paw, held it aloft for a moment before swatting Altaïr across the mouth and then folded his paw beneath his bulk.  Altaïr huffed a sharply bitten off laugh.  
            “I rest my case.”  He scratched behind Augustine’s ears and along his jaw and was rewarded with a deep rumbling purr.  “You have to lose a little weight, it’s getting embarrassing.  I’m going to be shamed for having a fat cat.  You don’t want me to be shamed, do you?”  
            Augustine staggered to his feet to stretch and then shifted up to resettle against the curve of Altaïr’s neck.  Altaïr smiled and rested his cheek against the cat’s soft fur.  Augustine started grooming his hair; he sighed.  _At least my cat loves me_.  


            He had been fifteen when Kadija came back from her first killing contract.  He had waited for her outside Al Mualim’s receiving room and followed her to the baths, asking questions she largely ignored.  He sat on the edge of the sunken bath and watched her scrub herself as meticulously and thoroughly as his mother had done every time she returned from a contract.  He handed her the things she needed without her having to ask, taking comfort in the familiar ritual.  She handed him the loofah and he scrubbed her back and shoulders.  
            “What was it like, Labiwa?” he had asked as he scrubbed her skin, smooth and dark as a ripe plum.  
            “Harder, Altaïr,” she replied.  
            _Harder Altaïr_ , his mother had commanded when he was still a child, and the cuts she made along the insides of his thighs with her tainted blade had burned when he scrubbed them.  _Embrace the pain, it will only make you stronger_ , she told him as she sliced his skin.  
            _Yes, Mother_.  
            “Yes, Kadija,” he had mechanically replied and scrubbed harder.  
            “It wasn’t like I expected,” she had finally said, turning and taking the loofah from his hand and carefully setting it on the edge of the bath.  
            “You came back.  I was so worried while you were gone.”  There was a knot in his throat he couldn’t swallow and it was almost choking him.  
            “I’ll always come back Aquila, I promise,” Kadija had said.  
            _I’ll always come back_ , his mother promised them every time she returned from a contract; until she didn’t.  
            “I’m proud of you,” he had told her, shyly flicking the surface of the water.  
            “Don’t be.  I only did my duty.”  
            “But Mother would be proud of you, wouldn’t she, Kadija?”  
            “I miscalculated.  The target’s death was not clean.  It was sloppy and painful and ugly.”  She finally looked directly at him and there was an emptiness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.  “Mother would not be proud of this; I would have disappointed her.”  
            _I don’t understand_ , he wanted to say, but he swallowed his words and they sat together in silence until the bath water was cold.  
            Two years later Kadija sat on the edge of his bath as he washed himself after his first killing contract.  She scrubbed his back and shoulders in silence.  
            “I understand now,” he had told her, staring at the freshly scarred over gunshot wound on the hand she braced along the edge of the sunken bath.  
            “I’m sorry.”  She touched his face and it didn’t feel the same as it had before he had left for his contract and he wondered what he had already lost, how much more he would lose.  


            There was something solid and heavy pressing on his back, between his shoulder blades.  It took him a moment to recognize that it was his cat, curled up and sleeping on him.  He sighed and twitched his shoulders, trying to dislodge his pet.  The cat squirmed into a more comfortable position.  He rolled over onto his side, smiling into his pillow as Augustine slid off his back with a sleepy protest.  He’d just gotten comfortable when Augustine daintily climbed over him, managing to step in both his ear and his eye on his way to the pillow, where he proceeded to sprawl, covering most of the pillow and half of Altaïr’s face.  Altaïr let him lay like that for a moment before prodding at him.  
            “You’re smothering me, August,” he mumbled, spitting the cat’s fur out of his mouth between words.  
            Augustine settled more comfortably across his face, breathing heavily in his ear.  He shoved at him again.  
            “Go sleep on the sheepskin I bought you, or on the blanket you’ve commandeered,” he said, shoving at Augustine’s bulk.  _Anywhere but on my face_ , he mentally added.  
            Annoyed by Altaïr’s prodding, the cat bit the cartilage of his ear.  Altaïr swore and sat up as he shoved the cat off the bed.  They scowled at each other for a long moment before Augustine started nonchalantly grooming himself, pointedly turning his back to him.  Altaïr’s lips slowly curved in an unwilling smile as he watched him.  
            “You know I can’t stay mad at you,” he said, patting the bed beside him.  “I forgive you.  Come here.”  
            Augustine spared him a haughty look and sauntered away.  
            “Suit yourself then.”  He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and lay back down, settling on his side.  His eyes grew heavy and the brazier of coals glowed blurrily in the muted winter sunlight.  It was snowing again; he could just barely hear the rustle of icy snowflakes against the windowpanes.  Augustine heaved himself back up on the bed with a grunt, gingerly picking his way over to curl up against his abdomen.  
            Altaïr smiled.  “I knew you couldn’t stay away.”  
            Augustine buried his face under one of his paws and fell asleep, breath rattling with the faintest of purrs.  Altaïr soon followed suit, finding surprising comfort in the cat’s warm body pressed against his belly.  


            He had been sixteen the first time Sirocco kissed him, the first time anyone had ever kissed him like that.  It was in the souq in Tripoli, next to a spice vendor’s stall.  The air was scented with balsam, saffron and cardamom.  She smelled of Madonna lilies and myrrh.  Her eyes were glowing copper, her skin as pale as sweet almond milk, and her hair was a bright as a fire, auburn streaked with honey.  He’d never seen anything so beautiful before in his life.  
            “I have been looking for you, Altaïr,” she had said.  
            She had appeared beside him, he hadn’t seen her approach, and he was used to noticing everything.  He should have been alarmed.  He didn’t know her, they had never met, and yet she knew his name, recognized him, picked him out from amongst the milling crowd where he was most invisible.  He should have been alarmed, but he wasn’t.  There was something so familiar about her, about her voice, the way she said his name.  
            “And now you have found me,” he had softly replied.  He had wanted to touch her, to assure himself that she was real.  “Do I know you, my lady?”  
            “No.  Not yet.”  She moved closer and his skin tingled with awareness of the diminishing space between them.  “But I have known _you_ for many, many years.”  Her smile was unearthly.  
            He hesitantly smiled back, unsure if she was flirting, unsure how he was supposed to respond.  Fredo was always teasing him for being awkward with people, for not knowing how to talk and flirt and when to smile.  
            “I don’t understand.  Who are you?”  
            “You aren’t wearing the necklace your grandfather gave you.”  She traced the collar of his robes and her smile was syrupy sweet and predatory.  
            He took a half step back; she wasn’t what she appeared to be and he felt a sudden bolt of unease.  His grandfather had given him that talisman – a rolled up scrap of parchment sealed in a small glass phial hanging from a leather cord – just after his mother died.  _Promise me you’ll always wear this_ , his grandfather had said as he hung it around his neck.  _It’s for protection, it will keep you safe_.  His grandfather had been so serious, so genuinely worried, it had frightened him a little, so he had promised and had kept his word until that very morning when the cord had broken and the delicate glass phial had fallen and shattered against the bureau’s beautifully tiled floor.  Malik thought he was being fanciful, but he had felt the talisman’s absence all day.  
            “How do you know about that?” he had demanded, a breath away from pulling his blade.  Her hands slid up to cradle his jaw, drawing his lips to hers.  
            “Peace, Altaïr,” she had murmured, and then she kissed him and everything changed.  
            She tasted like roses and rainwater and cold winter air, sugar and spearmint and salt.  He hesitantly opened his mouth at her urging, inexperienced and uncertain and more than a little self-conscious, because people didn’t do _this_ in markets, until something scraped against the vulnerable underside of his tongue and the rest of the world vanished as he clung to her.  It was like waking up from a fever dream.  He had never felt so aware of his body, so alive in his own skin.  He was breathless and reeling when she broke their kiss, anchored only by her hands stroking his face.  
            “So innocent, my assassin,” she had purred in his ear.  “So pure, aren’t you, my Altaïr?”  
            His breath felt thick in his throat as he nodded, too overwhelmed by sensations and emotions to trust himself to speak.  
            “I must go,” she had murmured, lips velvety against his.  “Save yourself for me, Altaïr.  Keep yourself untouched by any other and I will return to claim you, when the time is right.  Wait for me.”  And then she was gone.  
            “Aquila.”  Malik gripped his shoulder tightly and shook him.  “Where have you been?  It’s not like you to wander off like-”  
            “Did you see her?” he had interrupted, searching the crowd futilely for a glimpse of the strange woman.  
            “Who?”  
            “The woman,” he replied, frustration mounting at the widening smirk on his cousin’s face.  
            “As delighted as I am that you’ve finally discovered women, now is really not the time.  We’ve got work to do,” Malik had said as he clamped an arm around his shoulders and led him away.  
            He didn’t tell Malik about the kiss, didn’t tell him that the woman had known who he was and about the talisman their grandfather had given him before he died.  He intuitively knew Malik wouldn’t like it, would insist on telling Al Mualim, and he didn’t want to share his secret.  He wanted to enjoy having something that was only his.  His lips were stinging and tender and he thought about what Malik and Kadija had told him two years before.  Malik had talked about temptation and desire and the importance of mutual attraction and respect, and Kadija spoke about instinct and the drive to hunt, the urge to conquer or be conquered; sacrifice and patience and understanding.  He finally understood what they had been trying to tell him.  He had wished he knew the woman’s name, and he waited for her to return for him.  


            Augustine’s plaintive yowl awoke him.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and oriented himself to the time as he sat up.  _Late afternoon, maybe?_   His cat was standing next to his dish, watching him expectantly.  He had a night training session scheduled for that evening with a handful of students; he groaned and lay back down.  Augustine yowled again.  
            “No, August, it’s not your dinnertime yet,” he mumbled, snuggling back into his warm bed.  
            Augustine indignantly protested otherwise.  Altaïr burrowed further under the blankets and ignored him; eventually the cat quieted.  The silence was broken by a loud thump as Augustine shoved the package, still addressed to Viaan, off his desk.  He sighed.  
            “No, August.  Bad kitty.”  
            There was the pattering sound of folded parchment landing on the floor as the cat pushed Hadassah’s letters off his desk one by one, the clatter of a pen, then finally the tinkling smash of a pot of ink; he jerked his head up at that.  Augustine was staring at the broken inkpot with wide, wild eyes, tail swishing in excitement, as he prepared to pounce.  He repaired the inkpot with a distracted wave of his hand.  _Of course he found the one I haven’t made unbreakable recently, of course._  
            “August, get down,” he commanded.  The cat, watching him with cool calculation, was already hanging half off the desk.  “Get down,” he repeated sternly, making sure Augustine knew he meant it.  
            Augustine slithered the rest of the way off the desk and landed on the floor with a soft thud, shuddering his coat in indignation.  Altaïr flopped back into his bed with a sigh, settling comfortably and drifting into a doze.  The quiet didn’t last very long.  He snapped fully awake at the sound of Augustine sharpening his claws on the carpet.  
            “August, no!  Bad, bad cat!  Don’t make me hex you.”  
            Augustine froze in the act of sharpening his claws and shot a look back at Altaïr over his shoulder, eyes wild and coat puffed up, before springing sideways and tearing across the room.  He groaned and grudgingly got up at the sound of his toothbrush being knocked off the bathroom sink.  The tin of toothpowder clattered to the floor next.  
            “Go out and hunt if you’re so hungry, you kun-gošâd,” he grumbled as he retrieved his toiletries from the floor.  Augustine sank lower in the sink until only his wide green eyes, curiously folded over ears and ominously switching tale were visible.  “Don’t you dare attack me.”  
            The cat waited until he started to rise to swat him across the face.  It was playfully meant; he’d kept his claws retracted.  Altaïr swore and hauled him bodily out of the sink.  Augustine, perhaps recognizing he’d pushed his luck a bit too far, raspily protested and tried to squirm away.  
            “Now you don’t want my attention?  Well too bad,” he said, cuddling the struggling feline closer.  “You should have let me sleep.”  Augustine gave up and hung limp and unresisting in his arms.  
            “Altaïr?” his sister called from the doorway of his rooms.  
            He sighed and rubbed a distracted hand over his cat’s side; he didn’t want to talk about why Mari had failed to rise to Mercenary.  Augustine, however, had perked up at the sound of Kadija’s voice.  
            “Traitor,” he muttered under his breath to his cat.  “Coming,” he called out as he strode towards the door.  
            Kadija stepped back from the framed calligraphy she’d been admiring to sweep her eyes over him and coolly raised a brow at his sleep tousled hair and rumpled clothing.  
            “Are you coming to dinner?”  
            He adjusted his grip on his squirming cat and shifted his weight to his other hip.  “No.  I was trying to sleep before training tonight.  The cat woke me up.”  
            She huffed a laugh under her breath.  “Hand my nephew here,” she said, extending her arms expectantly.  
            “He’s not my child,” he retorted as he handed Augustine over.  The cat affectionately batted at the edge of Kadija’s hood.  
            “He’s probably the closest either of us is going to get to having children of our own, Aquila,” she replied, cuddling the cat against her chest.  “Allahu akbar, he’s getting fat!”  
            “He has large bones; he can’t help being heavy,” Altaïr replied stiffly.  
            “Large bones!” Kadija snorted, grabbing a handful of excess flesh on Augustine’s well-upholstered side.  “What do you call this?”  Augustine squawked in protest.  
            “His winter coat.  Stop that, you’re hurting him,” he blustered, scowling at his sister.  
            “He’s fine,” she sighed, dropping the squirming cat to the carpeted floor.  
            Augustine made a b-line for his dish and inspected it hopefully.  It was still empty.  He turned to balefully eye Altaïr with a mournful meow.  
            “No August-”  
            “For crying out loud, Altaïr,” Kadija exclaimed as she stamped for an elf.  “Just feed him already.  He won’t give you a moment’s peace until you do anyway.”  
            He scowled and raked a frustrated hand through his hair; sometimes he wished Kadija would let him manage his own life, or at least parts of it.  
            An electric snap in the air preceded the sudden arrival of the house elf; he was only half listening as Kadija ordered dinner for him and his cat.  
            “Stop sulking, Altaïr,” she admonished him.  
            “I’m not sulking.”  
            She sighed and crossed the room to rub his shoulder.  He reflexively leaned into her before he caught himself and tried to shrug her off.  
            “This is you not sulking?”  
            “This is me getting annoyed that you’re treating me like a child,” he retorted.  
            She sighed at him again and rocked her weight back on to her heels as she crossed her arms over her chest.  “Are you expecting Siro back soon?”  
            His brows rose slightly as he mulled over how he should reply.  “Siro comes and goes as she pleases – you know that – why do you ask?”  
            “Because you’re far more pleasant when she’s around.”  
            Any response he may have been tempted to make was forestalled by the arrival of a house elf – which was probably for the best, because all the things he was tempted to say were rather rude.  The elf was bearing a dinner tray loaded with plates, three plates to be exact – Augustine’s, his, and a third dish he assumed was for Kadija.  He pointedly arched a single brow.  
            “Will you join me for this meal?” he asked with slightly exaggerated politeness.  
            “It would be my pleasure,” she said coolly, pointedly ignoring his sarcasm and the way his mouth tightened in annoyance at her response.  
            “I had hoped to get some more sleep before-”  
            “That’s what coffee is for, Aquila,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “A strong pot of Turkish coffee for the effendi,” she added, addressing the elf again.  
            The creature looked up from feeding Augustine and slowly blinked its enormous gray-green eyes before nodding.  Altaïr forced himself to swallow his irritation and pasted on a bland smile as he uncurled his fingers from the tightly clenched fist of his left hand.  _I wanted to sleep, not swill coffee._  
            “That’s all settled then.”  Kadija’s smile was more of a self-satisfied smirk.  “There are matters we need to discuss.”  
            He _did_ sigh in irritation at that.  He knew exactly what _matters_ Kadija wanted to discuss, which, unsurprisingly, were the ones he would rather not.  
            “There is nothing we _need_ to discuss tonight-”  
            “Altaïr-”  
            “Leave it, Kadija,” he snapped.  Augustine looked up from his dish, licking the blood from his whiskers.  The elf had already gone.  He felt irritable and brittle and lonely; he missed Sirocco.  
            She scrubbed a tired hand across her face before raising her eyes to his again.  He read regret in her expression.  
            “Al Mualim expressed … _concern_ at your inability to control Mari,” she stated flatly, dropping each word like a rock.  
            He stared at her in the ringing silence following that statement, wondering why he didn’t feel what he thought he should be feeling, why he didn’t feel anything except for the pressure of expanding _nothingness_ in his chest.  Augustine had sauntered over and was standing on his hind legs and pawing at his thigh for attention.  
            “It’s not even your fault, really,” Kadija said quickly, nearly jumbling her words together in her haste to say them, to reassure him, as he stooped to pick up his cat.  “She’s reckless and unpredictable; wildly overconfident.  I don’t know that anyone _can_ control her, not entirely.”  
            “But Al Mualim now questions my judgment.  My ability to perform as a Master should.”  It wasn’t really a question.  He’d been trying so hard not to think about Mari and that morning’s shameful events.  He really wanted to go back to bed and sleep until he felt better.  _At this point I might never wake up_.  Then he thought of Sirocco and felt guilty for his bout of melancholia.  His cat was aggressively rubbing his forehead against his cheek.  
            “Perhaps we should transfer her to another Master,” Kadija half-heartedly suggested as she placed cushions for them around the table.  
            “And how will I live with myself when she gets herself killed, knowing I should have accepted my duty and done more to protect her?” he asked grimly.  “What could I possibly say to Aunt Maria, to Ezio, that won’t ring hollow with failure?  What sort of man would I be then, Labiwa?”  
            “You are trying to shoulder too much on your own,” she said gently, reaching up to smooth his sleep-tousled hair.  “Let me help you, jeegaram.”  
            “We’re not still children.”  Augustine was nipping his jaw for attention.  “No, August.  No biting.”  
            “I’m still your older sister,” she retorted.  “Put the cat down and eat your dinner.”  
            He pointedly sighed as he set Augustine down and sat at the table.  The cat crawled into his lap.  
            “Are you practicing for when you find a husband?” he asked sourly, stabbing his fork into the dish of bademjan in front of him.  
            “I’m training you for a wife.”  
            “You can stop; I’m not getting married.”  Usually he liked the smoky-tart stew, but he wasn’t in the mood for it tonight.  He wasn’t in the mood for much of anything, really, especially not the conversation he knew Kadija intended.  
            “Well, neither am I.”  She tapped her blade against their glasses.  “At least it’s a choice for you.”  
            “Not really.”  He pushed his food around the plate and avoided her eyes.  
            He knew marriage was not an option with Sirocco, he’d known that all along, and there wasn’t any point to wanting things he could never have.  It wasn’t even a question of finding someone else; she was the only person who could make him _feel_ anything.  He hated when he had to go looking for his aunt in the brothel she owned.  Most of his aunt’s whores already knew who he was or had been adequately warned away, but every so often there’d be one who would try it on with him.  He hated those encounters.  He hated being touched, hated their coy looks and sultry words, hated the look in their eyes when they realized that he was incapable of responding like they expected and wanted – anger, revulsion, pity – hated their disappointment.  Most of all he hated the reminder that there was something _wrong_ with him, that he couldn’t _feel_ what other people felt.  
            “What’s bothering you, Aquila?”  
            “Nothing.”  He shrugged and toyed with his food.  “I wish things could be different, sometimes.  I wish there was a way to go back and make things right.”  
            “Everyone dies,” she said softly.  She had said the phrase so often to him, like a mantra, a lullaby.  It was their way of not talking directly about Malik and Federico, their mother, grandfather and aunt, their lost students and fallen colleagues.  The names of their dead were an ever deepening river one could easily fall into and drown.  
            “Not everyone,” he mumbled.  
            She slammed her hand down on the table and he jumped at the sound.  Augustine sleepily protested at being jostled.  
            “That’s what _people_ do, Altaïr, they _die_ ,” she ground out.  “Mal wouldn’t want-”  
            “Don’t,” he snapped.  “Don’t tell me what Mal would or wouldn’t want from me.  Not now.  Now that he’s-”  He sucked his breath sharply between his teeth and glared at the wall.  
            “Altaïr-”  
            “I’m going to be late,” he interrupted, sliding his cat from his lap as he stood and then strode over to his dresser and yanked open drawers hunting for fresh clothes.  Kadija remained silent as he changed.  She was still sitting at the table when he left.  She wasn’t eating.  He slammed the door on his way out.  


            He had the rank of Apprentice when he came of age at seventeen and forged his own blades with the shards of his mother’s, officially beginning his training as a fidā'ī.  It wasn’t that unusual for those raised as Assassins to skip the lowest ranks, having already learned at least some of the skills they were expected to have.  What was unusual was how quickly his skills improved and he leaned new ones, rising to Mercenary before his eighteenth birthday.  He ranked as a fourth tier Veteran when he was nineteen.  It was unheard of.  
            He became a Master two months after his twentieth birthday, the youngest to have achieved that rank in the history of the Order.  
            “Your mother would have been proud of you, Altaïr,” Al Mualim had told him as he placed the heavy Ferrymen’s ring on his finger, over the brand he had been given when he’d first taken his vows.  He’d chosen the same words his mother had used for the engraving inside the ring’s band.  _In uncertainty lies infinite possibility_.  Kadija had gone quiet when he showed her, smile tightening ever so slightly with worry.  He didn’t ask why.  She never said.  
            “Thank you, Efendim.”  
            The woman was there, he could tell by the way his body hummed with awareness, hovering just beyond the periphery of his vision.  She had been hunting him, haunting him, ever since that kiss in the Tripoli souq; he wanted so badly to finally be caught.  
            One month later Al Mualim summoned him for a private audience.  The woman was already there with the Mentor when he arrived.  
            “This is the one I want,” she had confirmed, circling him and trailing her fingertips over his body.  He steeled himself not to flinch at her touch, muscles tight and heart pounding.  He almost always flinched when anyone but Kadija touched him.  
            “Are you sure?” Al Mualim had asked.  “Surely someone else would suit you better?  Altaïr is hardly more experienced than a child in matters such as this.”  
            “Do not look to test me, Jamil.  My patience is growing thin with your games and delays,” she had replied lightly, sugaring the sharpness of her words with a smile.  “I want what I was promised, twice over.  Even if I was willing to accept another for _your_ debt, there is still the matter of Aaliyah’s.”  
            Altaïr, who had been waiting silently, head bowed and eyes respectfully lowered, while they talked over him glanced up sharply at his mother’s name.  
            “Your deal with Aaliyah died with her.”  Al Mualim’s voice was brittle beneath its veneer of affability.  
            “But the collateral did not.”  
            His heartbeat was ringing in his ears and his breath caught as the missing pieces of what they were discussing fell into place.  The woman had to be a Maraas – they were the ones who occasionally made deals with mortals – his mother and Al Mualim had dealt with her, and he had been used as collateral for both.  It was inexplicably _painful_ that he had been repeatedly bartered like an object.  He watched the exchange between the Mentor and the Maraas unfold before him with studied disinterest, and a fair amount of relief it was not his place to take part because he had no idea what he would be expected to say.  
            “Surely you could be satisfied with another; Altaïr’s talent and skill are invaluable to the Order,” Al Mualim insisted, baring his teeth; it did not remotely resemble a smile.  
            “Altaïr will not be harmed-” he jolted with surprise and a curiously complex feeling of _discomfort_ when her hand grazed the small of his back as she circled behind him “-you have my word.”  
            “The word of a Maraas,” Al Mualim bit out.  Altaïr watched the Mentor’s grip on his cane tighten.  
            “Which is far less tarnished than yours,” the woman had snapped, eyes blazing.  “How many times has Al Mualim reneged upon their word to the Maraas, to me?  Would you be remembered as the Mentor who threw away a mutually beneficial relationship that has endured over seven hundred years?”  
            Al Mualim had hesitated.  “Surely it need not come to that.  This is not the first time we have had our differences over the years.”  
            “It will be one time too many.”  She tilted her head as she studied the Order’s Mentor and then a chilling smile split her lips.  “Tell me, Jamil, how did Aaliyah die?”  
            Al Mualim froze and the silence sucked all the air from the room.  
            “No?”  The woman’s smile widened and she circled back to Altaïr; he studied every sinuous movement as he processed the implications of what had been said.  “Perhaps you will answer someone else.  Ask him, Altaïr.  Ask the man who replaced your grandfather, ask him how your mother died.”  
            He hadn’t flinched when her fingers grazed his cheek; he was too numb to feel it.  He didn’t understand.  
            “Efendim?”  
            Al Mualim had turned to him, obviously shaken.  “Aaliyah Effendi died while on contract, as befitting a true and loyal servant of the Order.  There is nothing else to tell.”  
            “Will you honor her debt, Jamil?” she had asked softly, gliding over to take the older man’s arm.  “You know she would never have agreed if he was to be harmed.  He was more precious to her than anything across all the lands.”  
            Al Mualim had slowly tipped his chin in a shallow nod.  “That is true.”  The Mentor thoughtfully paused to study him; Altaïr saw his cloudy eyes flash gold.  “The Order is assured of your continued assistance and good will, Sirocco?”  
            _Sirocco_ , he had thought, curling his toes into the insoles of his boots.  _Her name is Sirocco_.  
            “And more, if he is pleasing enough to me.”  Her smile had been predatory and he hadn’t understood what was being agreed between them, what he would be ordered to do.  
            “Escort the lady to your chambers, Altaïr, and see that she receives all that she desires,” Al Mualim had commanded.  He wondered if he had only imagined the Mentor’s half-second hesitation.  “You are also relieved of your regular duties tomorrow.”  
            “And the next day as well, Jamil?” Sirocco had inquired sweetly.  “He is young and strong, but he will still need time to recover.”  
            Al Mualim did not look pleased.  “And the next day as well.”  
            Altaïr had bowed his head but held his tongue; there was no way to express his surprise without sounding ungrateful.  “I will see Al Mualim’s will done.”  
            He flinched when Sirocco took his arm as he escorted her from Al Mualim’s receiving chamber towards his rooms.  
            “Safety and peace be upon you,” Al Mualim had intoned as the door shut behind them.  


            It was early morning when he returned to his chambers, fingers and feet nearly numb with cold.  Midwinter night training sessions were especially grueling and the group of students he’d had to work with had sorely tried his patience and fortitude.  She was lounged across his bed, clad only in her slip, his cat cradled in her arms and her hair streaming down over her shoulder like molten magma.  
            “Siro,” he breathed, dropping his fur lined robes to the floor and toeing off his boots.  
            “Good morning, my love,” she murmured as she rose.  “How I’ve missed you, my sweet assassin.”  She closed the space between them in a flicker.  
            “I’ve missed you more,” he replied, reaching for her as she guided his lips to hers.  His hands settled at her waist and he moaned into her mouth at the heat of her kisses.  
            “Love is not a competition, Altaïr,” she gently admonished as she finished undressing him.  
            He hummed noncommittedly and nuzzled against her, eager for her caresses; he loved the feeling of her hands on his body.  He loved touching and being touched by her.  
            They had not had sex their first night together.  He had been too skittish, barely able to tolerate physical contact, no matter how badly he longed for it with her.  She had been incredibly patient, coaxing him back to her each time he shied away.  It had taken most of the night for her to undress him.  She’d had to guide his hands over her body, tell him what to do every step of the way, and he’d obeyed.  He learned new skills quickly, but trusting and being comfortable had taken longer.  
            “Do you remember when we were first together?” he asked shyly as he slid his hands up under her slip.  
            “Of course.  You were such a sweet, wild boy,” she said softly, pressing hot kisses against his chest.  “So hungry to be loved.  It has been such a pleasure to tame you to my touch.”  
            “Am I tamed?” he asked, allowing her to back him onto the bed.  His breath caught with anticipation as she took off her slip.  
            “Yes.”  
            He shivered when she joined him under the covers, her skin silky-smooth against his.  Having sex with her was amazing, he felt everything so intensely – the constant physical hum of life in his veins, her fingertips brushing and sparking against his skin, the sticky wet grind of her hips against his, pleasure and pain plied together so tightly he could never differentiate between the two.  He was impatient; she didn’t make him wait.  
            “I missed you, Siro,” he mumbled against the side of her neck afterwards, sleepy and sated and spent.  “I wish you didn’t go away so much.”  
            “I know, my love,” she murmured, caressing him.  His body’s response to her touch was immediate and intense.  “But it is necessary.  I need to feed, and tend to other matters.”  
            “You could feed closer, you don’t have to go so far away,” he protested.  “I need you, Siro.  Everything is going wrong, no matter how hard I try to do things right, they keep ending up wrong and broken and ruined.  Everything but loving you.  That’s the only thing I seem to be able to do right anymore-”  
            “Hush, my dearest love,” she admonished him gently, dusting kisses across his eyelids.  “Enough of that.  Tell me what is weighing on your heart, let me help you feel better.”  She touched the scars on his inner thighs gently; he allowed her hand to wander, fingers tracing scar after scar his mother had given him to make him stronger.  He didn’t like for people to see those scars.  They never understood and he got so tired of explaining, of the expressions on their faces when he told them there was nothing wrong with what had been done to him.  Kadija knew; she’d taught him the glamor he used to hide them.  
            “Maria tried for Mercenary today,” he hesitated, frustrated and confused because he still couldn’t understand why it had gone so wrong.  
            “What happened?”  
            “She failed,” he said simply, the words almost choking him.  “Spectacularly.  I don’t understand the choices she made, she just…”  He swallowed shakily.  “And now Al Mualim questions my judgment.  My ability to perform as a Master should.  All my life I have served the Order to the best of my ability.  How is it that’s no longer good enough?  How can Al Mualim expect me to do better?  I don’t understand.  I don’t understand why I am being judged so harshly.”  
            “Jamil treasures you, my love.  Had Aaliyah given him the slightest chance he would have claimed you as his own.  He is being harsh because he believes it will help you become better,” she soothed.  
            “I thought you said he wasn’t-”  
            “He’s not,” she interrupted smoothly.  “He was your mother’s mentor, nothing more, but he loved her and he would have shielded her, had she allowed it.  You are all that remains of her.”  
            He wanted to ask her more about his mother, there was still so much about her he had never been told, but simply telling Sirocco about Mari had been a salve, and he found the intensity of his earlier emotions drifting away.  _Later_ , he decided.  _I’ll ask about Mother and Al Mualim later._  
            “I can understand that, I suppose,” he murmured, thinking of Mari.  His aunt would be harsh on her failure and he would deflect as much of it as he could.  It was only right; it was his duty to protect the family.  
            She nudged his chin up, guiding his lips to hers.  He felt her bottom lip beginning to split and eagerly opened his mouth to her, moaning low in his throat when he felt her barbs sliding between his teeth.  _Yes, yes_.  He willed himself to go limp in her arms, to allow her to manipulate his body as she saw fit.  He shuddered with pleasure as her barbs scraped against the back of his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to put the translations for the words/phrases I'm using (to save having to look it up yourselves, or maybe correct me if my usage is a bit off - translating is more art than science) 
> 
> Jeegaram – (Farsi) my liver   
> (technically, more of a romantic term of endearment, but an expression of some really strong love and it works within Altaïr and Kadija's relationship with each other)


	8. Taline: some things we lose

            The room she was in smelled of disinfectant and lilacs, hints of hyssop and blood.  She kept her eyes closed and breathing even while she tried to place where she was.  _The infirmary_.  Her shoulder felt stiff and pain wreathed her hips – serrated-sharp cramps and a burning ache emanating from her lower back – above and beyond the persistent bone deep fatigue she’d almost grown accustom to feeling.  _At least I’m not nauseous, for the moment_.  She was grateful for that one small reprieve.  The murmured conversation between two medics became more distinct as they approached her bedside.  
            “-at least we can assume that _someone_ managed to haul ashes with her,” one of them said with a spiteful chortle.  
            She had flinched before she remembered to stay still, recognizing the voice of the medic she’d seen when she first came to Alamūt.  
            “Don’t be cruel, Risha,” another voice admonished.  “This is going to be hard enough for her without your petty meanness.”  There was the clatter of wood against the iron bedframe and the rustle of paper.  “I’ve got this one, you go on.”  
            “She’s all yours.  Make sure you talk slow; her Arabic isn’t very good.”  
            She clenched her teeth at that; her Arabic was just _fine_.  She’d _never_ had any problems making herself understood at the cabaret.  
            “She’s gone now; you can stop pretending to still be asleep.”  
            The medic had spoken Ottoman Turkish, with a Syrian accent.  She opened her eyes and silently studied the woman standing at her bedside – early to mid-thirties, with dark thick brows above warm hazel eyes.  The medic smiled at her and hung the clipboard she was holding from a hook on the bedframe.  
            “I’m Hekim Shaitana, Senior Medic, women’s health.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, Taline Auditore,” she said.  
            She acknowledged the introduction with a shallow nod as she carefully sat up and motioned to the edge of the bed.  “Would you like to sit?”  
            “Thank you.”  The medic sat on the edge of the bed and continued to watch her, waiting.  
            She nervously picked at one of the healing wards stitched into the heavy blankets covering her body.  She’d been stripped to her slip and her legs were bare; a clammy feeling of unease clung to her like wet clothing.  _Something is wrong_.  She resisted the urge to press a hand to her abdomen.  
            “What happened, Hekim,” she asked softly, using the Turkish title for a doctor.  “Why am I here?”  
            “Can you tell me everything you did today?  Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”  
            She chewed her bottom lip and took a deep breath.  


            The day had started like any other over the last several weeks, although her morning sickness had been particularly bad.  She was woozy and light headed by the time she and Taghrid sat down for tea while their students napped.  
            “Any word from Ezio?” Taghrid asked as she poured her a cup of strong black tea.  
            “His last letter said he’d be back sometime this week, but I have no idea when.  I hope he hasn’t been delayed again,” she replied as she accepted the tea with a grateful smile.  
            Taghrid winced sympathetically.  “This must be so hard for you; I can’t imagine being separated from Andreu for so long, especially so early in your marriage.  You’ve hardly had any time to get to know one another.”  
            “I’ll be happy for him to come back to me,” she agreed, forcing a bright smile.  
            Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how to feel about her husband’s imminent return.  She was so lonely, and while the Assassins’ hostility and the hurtful gossip had somewhat subsided, she was still painfully aware that, without Ezio’s protection, she wasn’t entirely welcome within the walls of Alamūt.  She was also bursting to share the news of her pregnancy with him.  She kept almost writing it in the letters she sent, only to hold off at the last moment in favor of telling him their good news in person.  She wanted to show him the emerging roundness of her belly and fullness of her breasts, to pick out baby names together and share dreams about their child’s future.  She dropped her eyes to the spirals of steam rising from her tea and nibbled at her bottom lip.  She was also a little afraid of her husband – of Ezio the Master Assassin.  She’d worked up the courage to venture into the offices of the vicīr and asked to see her contract, to have it explained to her.  The older vicīr who helped her was surprisingly understanding and sympathetic.  The terms were stark and brutal and she felt nauseous and giddy with horror if she let herself think about what all those words really meant as anything but passing abstracts.  _All assets shall be surrendered to the Order upon extinguishment of all possible claimants and bloodlines, save for the undersigned_.  She didn’t want to think about what Ezio was _actually_ doing in Armenia, to her family, for her.  Part of her dreaded his return, knowing his expectations for their marital relations.  Her shaking hands rattled the teacup against its saucer at the memory of how frequently he had demanded sex from her, how much it had hurt when he was inside her.  
            “I’m sorry Tali,” Taghrid murmured.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”  
            “No, it’s fine.  I’m not upset,” she quickly lied.  “I just miss Ezio and I think I might be catching something; I’m so achy and tired today.”  
            “You have gotten a little thin and pale,” Taghrid hesitantly acknowledged.  “Why don’t you go rest?  I can manage on my own for the rest of the day.”  
            “Don’t be silly.  I’m fine,” she protested.  “This tea is doing a wonderful job of restoring me.”  
            She made it through the rest of the morning with a bright brittle smile masking her headache and fatigue, the ever-present nausea and the intensifying ache in her lower back.  She caught Taghrid looking at her oddly, brow creased with concern, a few times, but she shrugged it off.  She was fine.  


            The cramping started in earnest while she was with her math class, after the noontime meal she hadn’t been able to keep down.  
            “Are you alright, Khanum?” one of her students asked when she sucked her breath sharply through her teeth in pain.   
            She managed a tight smile.  “I’m fine, Yusef.  Thank you.  Focus on your calculations.”  
            A rawboned, awkward youth, Yusef had developed an intense schoolboy crush on her.  He’d grow into a handsome young man in five years or so, once his body had time to fill in his outsized frame and he grew into his beaky nose.  She was flattered, never having imagined that she was capable of inspiring crushes or declarations of courtly love – which her male math students seemed particularly prone to making.  The few girls in her class seemed to have grown quite fond of her as well, she was even teaching a handful of them how to dance in the Turkish cabaret style she did so well.  
            “You don’t seem fine,” Yusef argued, brows drawn down in a worried frown.  
            “He’s right; you don’t,” another of her students – Bashirah – quickly agreed.  “Do you have a stomachache?”  
            “I’m fine,” she repeated with a taut smile.  Her cramps were becoming so bad she could barely keep from doubling over and her vision was dancing with black spots.  “Stop fooling around and focus on the lesson, please.  Now, can anyone define Absolute Convergence for me?”  
            There was some grumbling and eye-rolling, the shuffling of paper and feet, before one of her students raised a hand.  
            “Yes, Tarek?”  Her voice wobbled a little more than she would have liked.  
            “An Absolute Convergence is a series that converges when all terms are replaced by their absolute values,” the youth mumbled, cringing away from the sloe-eyed look of the girl sitting across from him.  
            “Very good, thank you,” she smiled at her student and was eventually rewarded with a hesitant smile in response; Tarek was very shy.  She stiffly walked over to the blackboard and braced a hand against the wall to keep from doubling over from the pain in her abdomen while she wrote out an example.  Her palm left a damp handprint on the blackboard when she moved her hand; she decided to ignore it.  
            “To see if a series converges absolutely, replace any subtraction in the series with addition. If the new series converges, then the original series converges absolutely,” she explained, tapping her index finger on different variables.  “Any series that converges absolutely is, itself, convergent.”  
            She took a step away from the blackboard and made a hasty grab for something to help her keep her balance as the world titled off kilter and went dark around the edges.  She heard several students cry out as she stumbled, but their voices seemed so far away.  Someone caught hold of her arm, clumsily breaking her fall.  
            “Daria, get a medic,” someone, possibly Bashirah, commanded; she’d noticed Bashirah had a tendency towards bossiness.  
            “Stop shaking her, Saabir!”  That had been Yusef, voice high and cracking with poorly suppressed panic.  She hadn’t felt anyone shaking her and couldn’t tell for sure if she should be alarmed by that fact or if Yusef had been exaggerating.   
            “I wasn’t!” Saabir protested.  She felt her shoulder being twisted to an uncomfortable angle and tried to shift the rest of her body to relieve the tension, but her limbs wouldn’t obey her commands.  
            “You’ll hurt her if you keep holding her like that,” Bashirah – it was _definitely_ Bashirah’s strident tones – said authoritatively.  She felt a jolt – and heard indignant squawks from a few of her female students – as she was abruptly released and her body landed fully on the floor.  
            “Is that blood?  Is she bleeding?” one of the boys bleated.  She should have recognized their voice, been able to identify the speaker, but everything seemed so distant and far away.  
            “I’ve got her, you deal with them,” she heard a voice say.  Someone was stroking her forehead, smoothing her skirt down her legs.  “It’s okay, Khanum, Daria will return with a medic soon…”  
            Her eyes wouldn’t open and the darkness was velvety and everything seemed so far away.  And then there was simply nothing.  


            The medic finished jotting down some notes and leveled an uncomfortably practiced looking sympathetic half-smile at her.  She tightened her grip on the heavy blankets mounded over her lap.  
            “What happened to me?”  
            “You fainted,” the medic said simply.  “Your body shows signs of severe stress; I assume you’ve been having some difficulty eating and sleeping normally?” she waited for Taline’s confirming nod before continuing.  “That was too much for your body to handle on top of everything else.  A few days of rest and hearty meals, and you’ll be healthy as a horse, I promise.”  
            A cramp twisted like a knife in her abdomen; her throat was so tight it was hard to swallow.  Part of her already knew the answer, but she had to ask anyway because she desperately wanted to be wrong.  
            “And-” she hesitated, noticing the way the medic’s expression flickered “-and my baby?”  
            The medic’s hesitation told her everything she needed to know.  
            She didn’t mean to start crying, but once the tears started she couldn’t stop.  
            “Mrs. Auditore-”  
            “Taline!  My name is Taline,” she interrupted, twisting her hands into the blankets.  Her tears were burning acid on her skin and her heart was exploding inside her chest and she was _frightened_.  She was afraid that there was something wrong with her.  Afraid she had somehow caused this to happen, that she was being punished for the contract she signed.  Most of all she was afraid of Ezio finding out, that he’d blame her or be angry, that he’d be disappointed.  She was afraid that he wouldn’t want her anymore.  
            “Taline,” the medic amended, voice pitched low and soothing.  “It’s going to be all right, I promise.  Spontaneous abortion usually occurs for an underlying _medical_ reason this early in a pregnancy; you haven’t done anything wrong.  Is there someone you’d like us to send for?  Someone you’d like with you for emotional support?”  
            “No!” she gasped out.  “You can’t tell anyone.  No one must know.”  
            Concern clouded the medic’s eyes.  “At least let us send for your husband.  I’m sure-” she checked her chart and hesitated over Ezio’s name “-he’d want to be here with you.”  
            “He pronounces it _Ettsjo_ ,” she supplied, wiping her face with the back of her hand.  
            “Ezio.  Thank you.”  The medic glanced up quickly with a smile before turning her attention back to the chart.  “He’s fidā'ī, a Master.”  Her head tilted slightly as she contemplated Taline’s chart a moment longer.  “I’m sure the others will understand if he leaves training early for this.”  
            She was already shaking her head before the medic had finished the sentence.  “He’s away, on a contract.  I don’t want – he can’t know,” she insisted.  “I didn’t tell him – about the baby – it was going to be a surprise, when he got back.  He mustn’t find out.  Please, please.  I don’t want him to know,” she begged.  As long as Ezio didn’t know she wouldn’t have to face what had happened; it was all only a dream that had twisted into a nightmare and it wasn’t really happening to her, to them.  
            “Okay, it’s okay.  We’ll say you have influenza, and keep you here overnight for observation,” the medic soothed in a way that made Taline feel like she had been prepared to say this, and had said it more than a few times before.  “You can go back to your quarters after breakfast tomorrow if you promise to rest, all right?”  
            “Influenza?” she repeated softly.  “You’ll say I have influenza?”  
            The medic stared at her another moment, and when she spoke, her tone was not unkind.  “Don’t you think he’d want to know?  He’s your husband; it was his child too.”  
            Taline gulped a breath and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling.  The muqarnas were pale mother-of-pearl and quicksilver-blue; a storm was coming.  
            “If you send this news to him, and he doesn’t… _come back_ … from his contract, it will be my fault.”  
            “That’s not true, it wouldn’t be your fault,” Yusriyah said patiently.  “You must know it’s in the hands of god and no other.”  
            “Would you believe that, if it was your husband?” she asked softly, staring at the far wall.  
            The medic’s silence was enough of an answer.  
            “How long,” she asked tentatively.  “How long until…”  She swallowed uncomfortably and studied her hands, how they folded together in her lap.  
            “Until you are able to resume sexual relations?”  
            She nodded and kept her eyes lowered, too embarrassed to face the medic’s politely sympathetic gaze.  “He should be back this week.  He’ll want, he’ll _expect_ … I want to be a good wife.”  
            “Which means never saying “no” when the fancy strikes him?” the medic supplied cynically and then sighed.  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: how often does he expect that of you?  A few times a month?  A few times a week?”  
            The silence stretched as she fidgeted, unsure how she should respond, what she could say.  She knew the medic expected her to tell the truth, but so had the last one, and that hadn’t gone so well.  
            More often, less often?” the medic finally prompted.  “I want to help you, Taline, but I can’t do that if you aren’t willing to tell me anything.”  
            Taline wished she could just vanish and creep away.  Her skin was hot and tight with shame and embarrassment.  “More often,” she managed to whisper.  
            “Multiple times a week?”  
            “More.”  
            The medic hesitated.  “Everyday?”  
            “More.”  
            She heard the medic’s breath catch and the rustle of paper as she flipped though her chart.  “Small wonder he got you pregnant so soon in your marriage.  Were you using any form of prophylactics?”  
            “No.”  She hesitated, picking at her cuticles.  “We, we want a family, together.  A big family, with lots of children.”  
            “Is that what _he_ wants?”   
            “I want that too.”  A fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks and she looked away.  “Will I be able to have children?”  The edge of her thumb, along the side of her nail, had started to bleed; she tucked it into her fist and squeezed tightly.  
            “I don’t see why not,” the medic replied.  “Usually the part people have problems with is conceiving, and it doesn’t seem like that’s an issue for you.  Based on the amount, and my examination of the tissue expelled, you were around six weeks along – which is about the amount of time you’ve been married… unless you conceived before your marriage?”  
            “We didn’t, not until after we were married,” Taline replied, shaking her head.  “And there wasn’t anyone before Ezio.  It was his child.”  She knew what the medic was fishing for, and she wasn’t about to give it to her.  What that man had done to her was in the past, and that’s where she intended that it stay; it had nothing to do with the present, her life, her marriage or her husband.  
            “Okay,” the medic said slowly, almost like she knew she was lying about something.  “So no prior pregnancies, no previous sexual history, nothing outside of what’s in this chart?”  
            “No.  Nothing,” she lied; it was as easy as breathing.  “I want to be ready, when Ezio comes back.  He mustn’t know.  Can you help me?”  
            The medic sighed.  “Yes, Khanum, I can help you, but you’ll have to stay longer, for observation.”  
            “How much longer?” she asked cautiously.  “I don’t want to still be in here when Ezio gets back; I don’t want to have to lie to him.”  
            “Would you feel guilty lying by omission?  He is still likely to find out you came here.  What will you tell him?”  
            “What you told me,” she replied softly.  “That I got sick, and that I missed him terribly but didn’t want to worry him while he was on a contract.”  
            The medic frowned slightly.  “I understand you have your reasons for not telling him.  But if you want your husband’s understanding and support during this painful time, he will need to know what happened.  I respect the difficulty of the choice you have to make.”  
            Taline returned the medic’s gaze unflinchingly.  She was grateful she wasn’t being pressed for explanations she couldn’t give, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down, couldn’t allow herself to be lulled into a false sense of security; it wasn’t safe.  
            The medic’s expression softened.  “I’ve been pushing instead of listening, I should know better, and I’m sorry.  We don’t get many patients from outside the Order here and I’m used to having a person’s entire medical history at my fingertips.  I’m going to get a few potions; I’ll be right back.”  
            Taline watched the medic walk away and then dropped her eyes to her lap.  Her thumb had stopped bleeding.  She’d been pregnant that morning when she woke up; she had been excited for Ezio to come home when she’d had tea with Taghrid, and now, only a few hours later, everything was different and everything had changed.  Ezio would be disappointed that she wasn’t pregnant when he got back – of course – but he wouldn’t look at her differently, treat her differently, as long as he didn’t know she’d lost his child.  She didn’t want to remind him of Cristina.  
            “Taline?”  Someone was touching her shoulder.  “Are you all right?”  The medic had returned and was holding several potions in one hand.  She looked concerned.  
            She nodded and opened her mouth to say – she wasn’t even sure what, anything, really, so long as the medic believed she was fine – but all that came out was a croaking sob.  
            The medic set the potions down and pulled her into a hard hug.  She cried until she didn’t have any tears left, until her heart felt hollow and her head hurt and exhaustion set in.  The medic continued to hold her long after her tears had stopped.  It was nice to be comforted; she’d almost forgotten how it felt.  
            “I’m sorry,” she murmured when she finally pulled away.  “You must have other patients who need your attention Hekim, and I’ve been wasting your time with my foolish tears.”  
            “Please, my name is Yusriyah,” the medic replied.  “And a healer’s time is never wasted on a patient in need; not all wounds can be treated with potions or plasters.”  
            She nodded jerkily and dropped her eyes to her lap.  There was a small smear of blood across her palm.  
            “I have a few potions for you to take.  This one will speed up completion of your miscarriage so that the worst of it is over in a few hours, rather than a few days,” Yusriyah explained, uncorking a phial and handing it to her.  She hesitated a moment, studying the murky brown-green potion that smelled, ever so faintly, of wet earth and rotting vegetation, before putting the phial as far towards the back of her mouth as she could without gagging and pouring its contents down her throat.  It tasted terrible.   
            “This one is for the pain and will help you relax,” Yusriyah said, taking the empty phial and handing her another.  She studied this potion as well, admiring its shimmering soothing pale blue color and cautiously inhaling its spring water scent.  She was about to hand it back untaken when a sudden vicious cramp wrenched her abdomen, forcing an anguished squeak past her lips before she could stifle it.  She swallowed the potion in one desperate gulp.  
            “What happens next,” she rasped, slightly woozy from the combined effects of the potions.  She winced at another wrenching cramp.  
            “Now you lay back and let the potions do their work.  Try to get some rest.”  Yusriyah took the second empty phial and helped her lay down, drawing the covers up over her and smoothing them gently.  “I’ll be by to check on you periodically.  You’ll notice some bleeding, but let someone know immediately if it feels too much heavier than a normal period, all right?  
            “Okay,” she nodded groggily.  “It’ll be over soon?”  
            “The worst of it will be over by tonight,” Yusriyah gently reassured her.   
            “And Ezio won’t know?”  
            “Not unless you tell him.  Rest now.”  
            Her eyelids felt heavy as she watched the medic walk away.  She was still aware of her abdominal muscles clenching and cramping, but the pain was muted, distant.  _And in my dying I am more alive than I have ever been_.  


            She was vaguely aware of novice medics coming by her bed every so often to change the dressings that had been placed beneath her hips as she drifted in and out of consciousness.  Yusriyah stopped by as well and administered a metallic tasting potion that made her throat feel hot after she swallowed it.  When she next awoke it was with the awareness of someone standing beside her bed, watching her.  
            “Hekim?” she mumbled, fully expecting her visitor to be Yusriyah or one of the novice medics.  
            “No,” the figure replied, voice not quite deep enough to have been a man.  “Do you need a medic?  Shall I send for one?”  
            She jolted fully awake at the unexpected voice and pushed herself semi-upright as she looked up at the speaker.  They were dressed as a Master, face hidden in the deep shadows of their hood.  
            “No, Effendi, thank you,” she replied, blinking quickly in an attempt to dispel the lingering haze of the azure potion she’d been given.  “I wasn’t expecting any visitors.  I didn’t think anyone knew I was still here, aside from the medics.”  
            “I sit at Al Mualim’s right hand; very few things happen at Alamūt that I do not know,” her visitor replied as she drew a chair towards herself with a casual sweep of her arm.  She finally recognized Kadija; she hadn’t met the other Masters of Alamūt.  Kadija flashed a smile at her as she sat, teeth gleaming unnaturally sharp and white in the shadows of her hood.  
            It suddenly struck her as strange, that after all the weeks she’d been within the fortress’ walls, Kadija was only now visiting her.  At first she had attributed Kadija’s apparent reluctance to meet her to her busy schedule as a Master and the numerous other demands on her time, but as the weeks passed those excuses felt flimsier and flimsier until she didn’t believe them at all.  If she hadn’t known Kadija was the only female Master of Alamūt she wasn’t sure she would have recognized her at all; she looked nothing like her brother or cousins.  _Aunt Aaliyah adopted her_ , Ezio had said when told her about his female cousin.  
            “We have students in common,” Kadija continued, still smiling.  “They told me that you fainted in class this afternoon and had been taken to the medics.  I checked your chambers first, but you weren’t there.”  
            “The hekim wanted me to stay here overnight, for observation,” she replied, twisting her fingers together uneasily.  It was silly, really, and nothing she could quite put her finger on, but Kadija’s smile made her nervous.  It was too easy; it clashed with sharp contrast against the cold emptiness of her eyes.  _The bigger the smile, the sharper the knife_.  The old warning her father had often repeated when she was a little girl and she wished she had listened better; the man had smiled broadly at her as well.  
            “Have you been ill?”  
            “A touch of influenza,” she replied carefully.  “And possibly a stomach thing, but I’ve been so anxious for Ezio, it’s hard to tell.”   
            “Influenza?” Kadija repeated slowly, drawing the word out and letting doubt bleed through the spaces created between the syllables.  “I see.”  
            Taline very consciously did not react to the palpable doubt in Kadija’s words.  “They gave me potions to help me get well faster.  Ezio wrote that he’d be back this week and I didn’t want him to return to a sick wife.”  _Is she here on behalf of Altaïr?_ she wondered briefly before dismissing the possibility as highly unlikely; Altaïr hadn’t previously shown any reluctance at asking uncomfortably direct personal questions.   
            “Of course.”  Kadija turned and lifted the lid from the tray the elves must have left for her on the small table beside her bed.  She studied the contents of the dish silently for a moment – red meat and dark leafy greens, foods high in iron – before carefully setting the tray across Taline’s lap.  “You should eat to regain your strength.”  
            “Thank you.”  The meat was tender enough for her to cut it with her fork and the au jus tempered the bitterness of the collard greens.  She swallowed her first bite self-consciously under Kadija’s watchful gaze.  “Yes, Effendi?”  
            “I couldn’t help noticing that your meal is the same as what is usually given to those who have been injured.”  
            She swallowed again before replying.  “Perhaps they serve everyone the same meal, Effendi.”  
            _Altaïr’s tactlessness would be preferable to this strangely choreographed dance Kadija is leading me through_.  
            Kadija hummed noncommittally, propping her chin on her fist and leveling her sharp dark eyes.  “Have you been bleeding, Taline?”  
            “What a strange thing to ask,” she replied, gripping her fork tightly, suddenly recognizing that her lack of a knife had been a conscious decision, rather than a mere oversight by the elves.  “I told you, the hekim said I have influenza-”  
            “They don’t serve everyone the same meal,” Kadija interrupted her.  “You’re being given foods high in iron, which is what they feed to patients who’ve lost blood.  Have you been injured?”  
            “No!  Nothing like that,” she replied, quickly shuffling through and discarding various explanations.  “I don’t know why this meal was chosen for me; honestly, I don’t.  The hekim just said they would make me better before Ezio gets back if I do what they tell me.  Please, Effendi, don’t say anything; I don’t want to burden him.”  Bewilderment seemed like her best course; Kadija didn’t strike her as the type who would be sympathetic to tears.  
            “I doubt Ezio would consider it a burden,” Kadija replied dryly.  
            “But I do,” Taline insisted.  “He’s far away, risking his life as we speak, and there’s nothing else he can do for me right now.  It will only make him worry, which might get him killed, and I can’t bear the thought of that.”  
            “Then you made a poor choice of husband.”  Kadija’s voice was hard, unflinching.  “The lives of all fidā'ī are bought with the lives of others until our luck runs out, and your husband likes to skate along the edges, where the ice is thinnest; he’s burned through a lot of luck.”  
            “Ezio was reckless because he wasn’t happy.  Things are different for him now, he’s got me and the-” she caught herself before she finished that sentence, and averted her eyes.  The fork was cutting into the fleshy part of her palm from how tightly she was gripping it.  _Just me, now that I’ve lost our baby_.  She wasn’t going to let herself cry again, at least not in front of Kadija.  She’d cry for their lost child later, in the privacy of Ezio’s chambers.  She could feel Kadija studying her in the sprawling silence and forced herself not to hunch her shoulders and flinch away from the scrutiny.  
            “You and-” Kadija paused, sweeping her eyes over the meal in front of her “-the fetus you just miscarried?”  
            “Please don’t say anything to him,” she whispered.  “He doesn’t know.  It was going to be a happy surprise, but it’s ruined now.”  
            The silence between them stretched.  
            “You’re right.  He wasn’t really happy with Cristina,” Kadija finally said.  “He so desperately wanted to be happy with her I think he fooled himself into believing he was, but it wasn’t real.”  
            She swallowed unsteadily and took a deep breath.  “How do you know that?” she asked, turning back to meet Kadija’s eyes – hard and dark and empty.  _Assassins’ eyes_.  None of Ezio’s family had offered her any information about Cristina.  She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to interpret what Kadija was telling her.  
            “She didn’t like us.  She didn’t want to belong,” Kadija replied.  “On some level, Ezio knew that.  It’s what kept him from asking her to marry him for so long.  He knew she’d say no.”  
            “And what about me?” she asked hesitantly, unsure if she really wanted to hear Kadija’s answer.  
            “You don’t have a choice, do you?” Kadija replied.  “You’ve already married him and there’s no getting out.”  
            “I don’t want out,” she said softly, dropping her eyes to her plate.  Suddenly her meal looked entirely unappealing, the au jus too red and the greens too bitter.  She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.  
            “Good,” Kadija said as she stood up.  “Because Ezio will never let you leave him, not after Cristina.”  
            “I have no desire to leave my husband,” she insisted, unease prickling down the back of her neck.  Kadija’s repeated references to her being trapped in her marriage to Ezio were making her nervous.  _Does she think I intentionally rid myself of his child?_   She couldn’t imagine ever doing such a thing.  “I want to have his children.”  
            “Good.”  
            Kadija moved as silently as smoke when she left.  
            Taline picked at her meal, puzzling over Kadija’s visit.  The cramping in her abdomen was getting worse but she hesitated to ask for another dose of the azure potion.  Her strange conversation with Kadija had only underscored how little she really understood the Assassins, how out of her depth and alone she really was.  _Unsafe._  
            “Taline?  How are you feeling?”  
            She glanced up and pasted a wan smile on her face for Yusriyah.  “Okay.  The cramps are back.”  
            “I thought they might be.  I brought you another dose,” Yusriyah replied, uncorking a phial and handing it to her.  
            She tipped the contents down her throat, eager for the escape from the physical and mental pain of her miscarriage, from the doubt and fear Kadija’s visit had sown in her mind.  
            “Will I be able to work tomorrow, Hekim?” she asked as she handed the empty phial back to the medic.  
            “We’ll have to see in the morning, but I don’t think so,” Yusriyah replied.  She helped her lay down and adjusted and smoothed the covers over her.  “The potion for completing your miscarriage made you bleed more heavily than intended.  I had to give you a blood replenishing potion to counteract its effects.  Do you remember that?”  
            “Vaguely,” she murmured.  Already her eyelids were so heavy.  
            “You can go back to your chambers early tomorrow afternoon if you promise to rest.”  
            “But what if-”  
            “Your husband won’t return before evening at the earliest,” Yusriyah soothed.  “It’s a long trip, even with magic.  Your secret is safe, Taline.  Go to sleep.”  
            She felt Yusriyah’s fingers brush her forehead before the darkness pulled her under.  She dreamt of flowing water.


	9. Ezio: from Yerevan to Rome

            “Sweet-Holy-Jesus, don’t stop,” Ezio groaned, digging his fingers into the tangled blankets on the bed.  Lucia Lucchesi hummed in response as she deep-throated him.  He’d come to tell his mother about his marriage to Taline on his way back from Armenia, but he’d run into Lucia just outside the brothel and had gotten, well, _distracted_.  After four weeks in Armenia hunting down Taline’s Cathari relatives it felt amazing to be touched by something other than his own hand, for that long, blood-soaked contract to finally be over.  
            His father’s family had been scandalized when his mother, Maria, had moved her brothel into the historic Auditore home.  In times long past the house had been filled with family and then extended family, but generations of Auditores becoming fidā'ī had taken their toll.  His father’s family had withered down to just him, his sister, uncle and grandmother; his mother was not included on that short list by unanimous agreement among his older relatives – the only thing upon which his mother and uncle had ever been united in opinion, until his relationship with Cristina had ended.  There were also some country cousins who were not part of the Order, but they didn’t _really_ count.  It was fortunate that he’d always wanted kids because his grandmother was getting desperate for him to have children – lots and lots of children – to resurrect the family and ensure her line continued unbroken.  Nana Claudia had _serious_ dynastic ambitions.   
            His mother’s brothel occupied the lower two floors of the large historic house; the family apartments were on the third and fourth floors, the stairway barred by a gilded gate, magically locked.  He and Lucia had taken the private back stairs – rather than going through the brothel – he wanted this to be a quick, quiet visit, which wouldn’t happen if his mother’s whores knew he was home; they all _adored_ him.  
            “Yeah, just like that.”  His hips were twitching against the urge to thrust into her mouth, to aggressively chase after the release that seemed to be eluding him.  The signature scar on his chest was tight and itching, reminding him that he had a wife waiting for him and his erection flagged slightly at the rush of guilt brought on by the reminder of that fact.  _Taline_.  She was there in his mind the moment he closed his eyes and he dove into every erotic memory of her he could conjure.

 _I want to be here, with you_ – pulpy-soft sweet mouth opening to him as they kissed, moaning his name against his skin – _Yes, varpet, I’d like that_ – spine arching into his thrusts, breasts full and firm in his hands, silky-dark hair tickling his skin – _Plant a baby in me, please Ezio_

            The guilt came crashing down with his orgasm, heavy, inescapable and _suffocating_.  Lucia smirked and slithered up his body for a kiss; he could taste himself on her tongue.  
            She felt his hesitation and pulled back to scrutinize him with a frown, flipping her honey-blonde hair over her shoulder.  “What’s the matter E-zo?”  
            “I-we can’t do this anymore.  I-I shouldn’t be here, with you, like this.  I have a wife,” he blurted out with a wince, scrubbing a hand through his hair and avoiding her eyes.  
            “And she has very nice penmanship,” Lucia replied with a teasing smile, reaching over to trace the still tender scar across his chest.  He flinched away from her touch.  
            “This has to stop between us,” he insisted.  “I don’t want to be the type of man who cheats on his wife; I’m not like my father.”  
            “You were just fine cheating on Cristina.”  
            He winced at her name.  “That was different.”  
            “How so?” Lucia demanded, eyes narrowed.  
            “We weren’t _married_ , for starters,” he pulled one of the blankets over his lap.  “And Taline… she won’t understand, she’ll be _hurt_ and I can’t do that to her.  She can’t wait for me to give her a baby, for us to start a family together.”  
            He’d finally asked one of the fidā'ī who’d accompanied him to Armenia the meaning of ‘varpet.’  He wasn’t entirely sure what Taline meant by calling him ‘master’ and he didn’t quite know how to ask her.  
            “So why are you here, with me, instead of your new wife right now?” she asked gently, rubbing his shoulder.  “Is something the matter?”  
            He leaned into the comfort of her touch.  They had been friends their whole lives, ever since they were children and everyone still called her Luca; there wasn’t anything he couldn’t tell her.  He just couldn’t find the words to explain how inhuman what happened in Armenia had made him feel, how fragile and brittle the breakup with Cristina had left him, and how deeply it hurt that he could tell that Taline didn’t enjoy having sex with him.  He was worried that Taline would try to leave him, that there was something fundamentally broken and unlovable in him that would always drive people away and he would never have a family of his own like he’d always so desperately wanted.  There wasn’t anything Lucia could say to help him with any of that, but she might be able to tell him what he could do to make sexual relations more bearable for Taline.  His mother had taken Lucia in, after her family had thrown her out for not being able to become the son they wanted her to be, and she was uniquely positioned to know at least _something_ about sex from both perspectives.  His uncle had been furious when Maria took her in – _Abomination_ , he had called Lucia – but his mother had stood firm, defiant in her decision and unbowed by her brother-in-law’s wrath.  Even after joining the Order and forging her blades, Lucia stayed at the brothel with Maria instead of moving to the Motherhouse; with Fredo gone and him and Mari moved away he imagined his mother was happy for her company.  
            Lucia’s room looked the same as it always did – faded duck’s egg blue walls and heavy white velvet curtains, various accoutrements of feminine beauty scattered across the scarred top of the cherrywood dresser and a pile of fashion magazines on the sheepskin rug by her bed, also cherrywood, to match the dresser.  Her movie star collage had gotten bigger.  Greta Garbo and Claudette Colbert stared back at him from across the room as he tried to gather his words.  
            “She, she cries,” he choked out, cheeks flaming with shame and embarrassment.  
            Lucia’s hand stilled.  “She cries?”  
            He nodded and crumpled a handful of blanket in his fist.  “Yeah, she cries when I make love to her; the whole time – during and, and after.”  He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, rubbed his tongue against the ridged roof of his mouth before continuing.  “I think, I think she’s _uncomfortable_ with me inside her.  That I’m – I don’t know – maybe too big for her?”  
            Lucia sighed.  “You _do_ realize that babies have to fit through there, right?”  
            He hunched his shoulders defensively at her tone.  “Yeah, so?”  
            “You’re not that big,” she said bluntly.  “Trust me, bello, you’ve got _nothing_ to be ashamed of,” she continued, waving off his indignant look.  “But your uccello is _not_ the size of a baby.”  
            “Uccellone,” he corrected and she snorted in response.  
            “Really, Ezio?”  
            He harrumphed and leaned back against the headboard, pulling the blanket up his chest.  “That doesn’t mean she’s not uncomfortable.”  
            “Have you tried talking with her about it?” Lucia asked, pulling on her shirt.  
            “Sort of?”  He shifted uncomfortably.  “She asks me not to hurt her, and I offered to wait until she’s ready, but she says she doesn’t want to wait.  I try to be gentle but she’s always so, so _tight_ , like, like I don’t really _fit_ , inside her, you know?  And I don’t know what I’m supposed to _do_ to make it better for her.”  
            “Are you taking your time with her?  Like, _actually_ taking it slow?  I know how impatient Ezione can be.”  She leveled a pointed look at him.  
            “Yes.”  He hugged the blanket more tightly to his chest and returned her look with narrowed-eyed defiance.  “If I take it any slower my balls might explode.”  
            “That’s not _actually_ possible, E-zo,” she snorted and then burst out laughing at the face he made in response.  “Okay then, have you been going vice-versa on her beforehand?  That might help you, um, _fit_ , inside her better,” Lucia continued, once she had managed to stop laughing, suddenly looking as uncomfortable as he felt.  
            “She, uh, she doesn’t let me do, _that_.  She said she didn’t like it, when I tried.  But I want to, you know, do that-” he scrubbed a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh, cheeks burning with embarrassment “-I like, I like the way she tastes.”  
            Sex had always been easy and uncomplicated for him and he took pride in being good at it, in his ability to pleasure his lovers.  He loved the way Taline clung to him, how much bigger and stronger than her he was, and he absolutely _loved_ her permissiveness – how she’d let him do almost anything, anywhere – he wanted to help her enjoy their intimate relations as much as he did.  He wanted her to be as eager for their lovemaking as Cristina had been.  
            The following silence stretched a few heartbeats too long.  
            “This conversation is getting a little, _awkward_ , right?” Lucia finally asked with a blush as she fidgeted.  
            “Totally awkward,” he readily agreed.  “But I can’t really talk about this with anyone else.  This means a lot to me, that you’re listening to all this and not just blowing me off.”  
            Lucia’s lips quirked with a smirk, obviously amused by his unintended pun, and she playfully punched his shoulder before humming thoughtfully.  “Maybe it’s not your fault.  Has she been to talk to a medic?”  
            “Yeah.”  He grimaced.  “And now there’s all sorts of vulgar gossip going round Alamūt – and probably the whole damn Order – about how inept I am at making love to my own wife.”  
            “I’m sorry, E-zo,” Lucia murmured sympathetically.  “I’m sure-”  
            The remainder of her sentence was lost in the sound of the door being slammed open and he knew even before he looked that it was his mother standing in the doorway.  
            “Good evening, Lucia,” Maria said frostily.  “Please excuse us, I need to speak with my son.”  
            “Yes Madonna,” Lucia squeaked as she sprang from the bed and hastily pulled on her skirt.  “I was just leaving.”  
            “I’m sure you were.”  
            Lucia blushed so deeply red it was painful to watch and grabbed the remainder of her clothing, not even pausing to put on her shoes before darting out the door.  _Great, more gossip fodder.  Just great.  I hope this doesn’t get back to Taline_ , he thought guiltily.  
            Maria waited until the door shut behind Lucia before approaching him.  He instinctively tried to retreat, but his back was already pressed against the headboard so he settled for hugging the blanket more tightly to his chest and avoiding eye contact.  
            “Good evening Mother, I was just about to come see you.”  
            Instead of replying she snatched away the blanket, uncovering both his nakedness and the marriage scar across his chest, which she surveyed with tightly pursed lips before slapping him hard across the face.  
            “Imagine my surprise when I received a letter from _Al Mualim_ congratulating me on my son’s _marriage_ ,” she seethed.  “When, _exactly_ , were you planning on telling me, Ezio?  Put your clothes on.”  
            “Yes, Mother,” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek as he slunk from the bed towards his discarded clothing.  His mother watched him, arms folded across her chest and eyes narrowed, radiating fury and disapproval.  “It’s not-” he started as he pulled on his zir-šalvar.  
            “How long have you been married,” she interrupted him to ask, and then continued before he had a chance to answer.  “A few weeks, at most, and already you’re slinking off to bed other people.  _Just like your father_.  I thought I raised a better man than that.”  
            “You did,” he protested, tucking his undershirt into his trousers.  “We were just talking.”  
            “Oh really?” his mother replied with a withering look.  “Lying is a sin, you know, just like _fornication_.”  
            “I’m not, I wasn’t,” he blustered as he shrugged his shirt on over his shoulders, embarrassed and flustered and _really_ annoyed that Al Mualim had written to his _mother_.  _Meddlesome old codger_.  
            “Have you told your uncle?” she demanded so abruptly it took a moment for her words to sink in and make sense.  
            “What?  No, of course not!  You’re my mother, of course I’d tell you first.  _Jesus_.”  He checked himself right before he rolled his eyes.  _Of course that’s what she really cares about.  
_             “Don’t swear,” she admonished, slightly mollified, posture relaxing somewhat.  
            “Sorry Mother,” he murmured, studying her from beneath his lashes, gauging her temper, as he nibbled his bottom lip.  Her dark eyes looked weary and there were streaks of gray in her ink black hair.  _More there than before_ , he noted guiltily.  Years of anger and anxiety had carved lines into her face; lines so deep that they lingered, even when she smiled.  She was paler than him and Mari, her coloring closer to Altaïr’s than theirs.  At a casual glance, Altaïr looked more like their mother than either him or Mari did.  Federico had looked like her too, still olive-skinned dark, like their father’s family, but with her black hair and feline sharp features.  Fredo had become a puzzle to him in the years since his death – still the older brother he had worshiped and adored, but he had, in many ways, been a stranger to him.  Malik had understood Fredo, known his secrets, but now Mal was gone too.  
            “Taline – her name is Taline – is a sweet girl, from Armenia.  I think you’ll like her.  Al Mualim has her teaching – little children and teenagers – she’s really good, with kids, can’t wait until we have our own.”  
            “And when might that be?” his mother asked, sliding a languidly calculated look at him.  
            “Soon, I hope.”  He hitched his shoulder in an awkward half shrug.  He’d started buttoning his shirt crookedly and had to redo it.  “She might have conceived already.  We were, um, you know, _trying_ before I left for my contract.”  He didn’t think of himself as being the slightest bit prudish, but reporting on his sexual activity with his wife to his mother made him feel extremely self-conscious, even more so than having just been caught in a compromising situation with Lucia.  
            “So instead of rushing back to your wife, you came here, to do what, exactly?” his mother asked, arching a severe brow.  
            He concentrated on carefully rolling up his shirtsleeves.  “To tell you, of course,” he replied.  _Which is, essentially, true_.  “I didn’t want you to hear about Taline from someone else.”  _Also true_.  
            His mother noncommittally hummed in response as her disapproving look intensified.  
            “I wanted to tell you about her right away, really,” he added quickly, trying not to fidget under her hard gaze.  _Slightly less true_.  “I thought it would be best to tell you in person, a letter just seemed so… cowardly.”  _And yet so much safer_.  He could tell his mother didn’t quite believe him, but thankfully she didn’t press the subject.  
            “I see,” she replied evenly.  
            He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, relieved that she seemed willing to let his recent _transgression_ slide.  
            “And how does getting naked with Lucia fit into that plan, Ezio?”  
            _Cazzo_.  
            “It doesn’t, really,” he admitted sheepishly.  “That just, kind of, happened.”  
            “I see.”  Her voice was dripping with disapproval and he flinched before he could stop himself; he hated disappointing her.  
            “It’s been, like a month,” he protested.  “A whole _month_ of living like a monk.  And she’s tiny!  Really tiny, and dainty, and I thought it might be a good idea to, you know, blow off some steam now so I can control myself when I get back to her, so I don’t accidentally hurt her, or something.”  
            “Use your hand,” she replied frostily.  
            He groaned.  “ _Mother_.”  
            “Don’t _mother_ me, Ezio.  Will you be so understanding if your wife is sleeping with other men while you are away on contract?” she demanded.  
            “That’s different!” he protested.  
            “How so?”  
            “It just _is_ ,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.  
            “It’s not,” she replied in a tone of such finality he knew better than to keep arguing, especially if he wanted to avoid getting the back of her hand again.  
            “Yes, Mother,” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek.  _Cazzo, that’s going to bruise_.  
            She sighed.  “So aside from _blowing off steam_ , why else are you here, Ezio?”  
            “I told you; I came to tell you about Taline,” he insisted.  “And that other thing was… an accident.”  He sheepishly scratched the back of his neck and looked everywhere but at her.  
            “Ezio,” she said warningly, “falling down the stairs is an accident.  Taking off all your clothes and putting your penis in another person does not remotely qualify as an _accident_.  A mistake, yes – accident, no.”  
            His shoulders sagged.  “Are you going to tell Taline?”  
            “No,” she said slowly.  “And I don’t think you should either, provided that this behavior stops _Right Now_.”  
            He hung his head and studied the tops of his bare feet, too ashamed to chance seeing the disapproving look on her face.  
            “I already told Lu that we have to just be friends.  It didn’t feel right, doing that, with someone other than Taline.”  
            “Well, I’m glad I managed to instill some sense of morality in you,” she commented waspishly.  “I hope you also feel guilty for using Lucia – she’s supposed to be your _friend_ , Ezio, and her life is hard enough without you riding roughshod over her emotions to make yourself feel better.”  
            His mother’s admonition hurt more than being slapped ever could.  He gulped down a breath and then another and his throat was tight and scratchy and his eyes were burning and – _oh god no, not again_.  
            “Oh, passerotto,” his mother sighed, “come here.”  
            A small voice in the back of his mind – that sounded vaguely like his uncle – sneeringly reminded him that he was far too old to be crying to his mother, but that didn’t stop him from stepping forward into his mother’s open arms and sobbing against her shoulder.  She maneuvered them back to the edge of the bed and sat down, rocking gently and stroking his hair.  
            “Tell Mother what’s hurting you, mio tesoro,” she murmured encouragingly.  
            “Everything,” he sobbed.  “I’m not a good person.  I’m not good at being a man.”  
            She clucked her tongue and shushed him, arms holding him tightly against her.  The older he got the more he appreciated his mother’s quiet strength and consistency, the way she was always there when he needed her and the way she accepted his faults and shortcomings and moved on.  _It does nothing to linger over things we cannot change, Ezio_ , she’d often told him when he was a child.  He wished he was more like her, that he’d inherited more of her strength and focus; he wished he was less like his father, who made a mess of things he never bothered to understand or appreciate.  
            “You didn’t have very good role models,” she said tartly, never one to let an opportunity to criticize her late husband and his family pass untaken.  
            “ _Mother_ ,” he protested.  
            She sighed.  “Doing bad things does not make you a bad person, Ezio.”  
            “How else are we judged but by our actions?” he demanded, voice muffled as he pressed his face into her shoulder, trying to block out the images seared into his mind – dead children and women, old men and young boys, virtually an entire bloodline erased; all dead except for Taline.  _Monster, Murderer_.  He didn’t know how he was going to face Taline if she ever found out the whole truth about him, about the contract she’d signed.  
            “By what is in our hearts, mio tesoro,” she replied fiercely.  “And your heart is pure and bright-”  
            “I’m drenched in the blood of children, Mother,” he interrupted her unsteadily.  “Boys no older than Darim and Cyrus, girls younger than Hadassah.  How do I just go back to my wife’s bed after that?”  
            “You know how,” she reminded him softly.  
            “No matter how long or hard I scrub, some stains will never wash off-”  
            “Hush, Ezio.  Put aside the Assassin when you go to her bed and only be the man with her.  Make a baby with her, children have a way of helping us hold onto and rediscover our humanity.  Come now, come along to your old room and I’ll tuck you in, passerotto,” she soothed, leading him towards the door and the hallway beyond.  “We’ll have breakfast before you return to your wife and talk some more then.”  
            “Yes, Mother,” he mumbled.  “I wanted your help selecting a stone for Taline; I hadn’t gotten her a ring, I thought the smiths could forge one for her, but I haven’t settled on a stone.  I have a few with me, will you help me choose?”  
            “What type of stones?” she asked over her shoulder as she glided down the hallway before him.  Even after her forced retirement all those years ago she still moved as soundlessly as smoke.  _She should have been allowed to rise to Master.  She would have been great_.  The thought of all that his mother had given up for him made his skin crawl with a fresh wave of guilt.  _I owe it to her to be a better man_.  
            “I thought an emerald – she has pretty green eyes,” he replied as he followed her into his old room, now stripped bare and impersonal, except for the tattered stuffed dog propped up against the pillows at the head of the bed.  “Sebby.”  He smiled as he picked it up.  “The years have not been kind to you old friend.”  
            As he always did whenever he came home, he ran his eyes over what had been his childhood room, taking stock of what she had changed.  There was a different painting in place of the one she’d hung to cover the hole he’d punched in the wall when his uncle had told him that his father and brother were dead.  _I wonder if she ever bothered to patch that over_.  The rug was new too – high quality materials and expert workmanship – he’d be surprised if Kadija hadn’t had a hand in its selection, at the very least.  His cousin really had a thing for rugs.  _There’s a joke in there somewhere_.  
            “I think an emerald is a good choice; the stone of Venus, goddess of love, has long symbolized love and rebirth,” Maria murmured, rubbing his shoulder before reaching up and pulling the tie from his hair.  “Emeralds also aid in fertility.”  
            He blushed and brushed her hand away from his hair.  “That’s not a concern in my marriage, Mother.”  
            She hummed in response.  “You need a haircut, Ezio.  Your hair is getting almost as long as your sister’s.”  
            “It’s fine,” he bit out.  
            “Does Taline like it like this, then?” she asked, turning down the covers on his bed before going to the window to draw the heavy blackout curtains.  
            He shrugged.  “She hasn’t said,” he replied carefully.  
            Taline didn’t play with his hair the way Cristina had.  In fact, she rarely touched it, he realized with a pang of disappointment and longing; he loved having his hair played with.  He carefully set his childhood toy down on the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt.  He wondered if Taline liked his body as much as he liked hers.  He dropped his shirt and undershirt to the floor and kicked off his trousers before sliding into bed.  His mother heaved a put-upon sigh as she bent over and picked up his discarded clothing.  
            “I’ll have an elf wash these and bring them back in for you by morning,” she told him softly.  
            “Thank you, Mother,” he mumbled against the pillow, already half-asleep in the soft, feather bed.  “I’m sorry-”  
            “Sleep now,” she interrupted him, voice firm yet gentle.  “We’ll talk more in the morning, over breakfast.”  
            “Okay.”  
            He felt her lips brush his forehead and he was asleep before she shut the door behind herself.  He dreamt of Taline.  


            “Is there any espresso?”  
            “There’s coffee,” his mother replied and lifted her cup to her lips.  
            “But I want espresso,” he sighed as he dropped heavily into the chair before the empty place setting and acknowledged Lucia with distracted nod.  He’d woken up with Taline’s name on his lips and an intense ache to see her, to be with her.  _I can’t remember the last time my balls hurt so much.  Years, at least_.  He irritably shook out his napkin and dropped it into his lap.  
            “Does that mean you don’t want any coffee?”  
            He frowned at the pot of Turkish coffee.  “I thought you loved me.”  
            “Apparently a mother’s love counts for nothing without espresso,” Maria observed dryly to Lucia, who looked decidedly uncomfortable to be caught between the two of them that morning.  
            “Uncle Mario always has espresso,” he commented churlishly as he pulled the platter piled high with slices of toasted brioche towards himself.  
            “So go have breakfast with him then.  And you’ll get the back of my hand if you take that tone with me again,” Maria replied coolly before taking another sip of her own coffee.  
            “Didn’t you sleep well, E-zo?” Lucia asked, obviously trying to steer the conversation back towards less contentious subjects.  
            “Not especially.”  He shrugged.  “Was Cesare around last night, Mother?  I had the most vivid dreams.”  He watched Lucia fumble for a cigarette from the corner of his eye and wondered why she was acting so awkward around him; it wasn’t like his mother hadn’t caught them fooling around before.  
            “Of Taline?” his mother inquired with saccharine sweetness.  “Is that why you’re in such a mood this morning?”  
            He concentrated on not blushing as he turned his full attention to his mother.  “I have no idea what you could mean, Mother.  The brioche is stale.”  
            His mother set her coffee down on the table with exaggerated care and leveled a calculating look at him.  “Put that out, Lucia; I’ve told you not to smoke at the table,” she said, her eyes not even flickering away from his.  “The brioche is not stale, Ezio, but your attitude certainly is.  Your cousins have the manners to never complain about the food at my table, why don’t you?”  
            “Altaïr would eat glass if you served it to him,” he retorted.  “That’s hardly good manners so much as being cowed.”  
            “Your brother was never so ungrateful,” she continued, moving on to her next favorite pressure point.  
            “Fredo only became the perfect son after he was dead and buried,” he bit out.  “And there was always espresso in the morning when Father was still alive.”  
            The entire side of his face was stinging before he even saw her move.  
            “Don’t you _ever_ bring up that man against me again, Ezio Auditore.  You are becoming more and more like him every time I see you.  And I thought I told you to put that out,” his mother snarled as she rounded on Lucia.  
            “Yes, Madonna,” Lucia squeaked, bolting the remainder of her coffee and extinguishing her cigarette in the dregs.  “Look at the time!  I’ve got to be going; I’m going to be late.”  She was out of the room like a shot.  
            “I’m not like him,” he mumbled, rubbing his stinging cheek as his eyes burned with unwelcomed tears.  “I’m not.”  
            “Make sure you wash the saliva off your pisello before going back to your wife.”  
            She was gripping her coffee so tightly he could see the tendons running up her arm.  _Any second now_ , he thought, waiting for the delicate porcelain to shatter in her white-knuckled grip.  He felt so guilty.  
            “I’m sorry, Mamma,” he mumbled, hesitantly reaching out to touch her arm.   
            “Oh, passerotto,” she murmured, setting down her coffee and coming round the table to clasp him against herself in a tight hug.  “Mio tesoro.”  
            Her arms were strong around him as he sobbed against her stomach.  
            “I didn’t mean to,” he gasped out between sobs.  “I don’t know why I did it.  I was so good, the whole time in Armenia, all those weeks alone, resisting temptation, and then Lu offered and it seemed like such a little thing, like it would hardly matter at all.  But it does, doesn’t it?”  He looked up at her.  “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”  
            “No, you haven’t.  Not yet,” she assured him gently.  
            “I should tell her, shouldn’t I?” he asked hesitantly.  “Confess my sins and beg for absolution.”  
            “No, you should not,” his mother said firmly.  “You want to confess to make yourself feel better, but it will only make her miserable.  If she knows you were already unfaithful so early in your marriage she’ll never be able to stop wondering who you’re sleeping with every time you leave for a contract, if she’s looking at your new mistress every time you train a female student.  The jealousy and uncertainty will eat her alive.”  
            “Yes, Mother,” he mumbled.  _Is that what Father did to you_ , he couldn’t help wondering.  _Did he make you so jealous that misery consumed all the love that once existed between you?_   He couldn’t remember his parents ever seeming to be happy together, but he knew that they had to have been, once.  His uncle told him they were a love match, that no one else wanted their union.  He’d often wondered what had gone so terribly wrong.  
            “Last night you mentioned wanting my help with selecting the stone for a ring for your wife?”  Her tone was perfectly even, conversational, as she first wiped all traces of tears from her own cheeks and then his with a small half-smile.  
            “Yeah,” he rasped, glad for the change of topic.  “I’ve got them with me, here.”  He fished the small pouch of gems from the pocket of his robes and handed it over to his mother.  He watched her face as she dumped the contents out onto the table.  
            “So many pretty gems,” she marveled.  “These must have cost a fortune, Ezio.”   
            “Not really.”  He shrugged uncomfortably.  “One of the targets was a jeweler.  I did him in his shop after hours and cleaned out his stock.  Most of it went straight to the Order.  Those were my cut.  Oh, and these,” he added, fishing out a strand of large, peacock green Tahitian pearls from his other pocket.  “For you.”  
            “Oh, passerotto,” she murmured with a smile.  “You can be such a sweet boy.”  She reached over and cupped the cheek she’d struck earlier gently.  His mother had always loved pearls, more than any other gem.  Over the years she’d amassed an enormous trove of every size and shape of pearl.  
            “I haven’t been a boy for a long time, Mother,” he reminded her.  “Do you like them?”  
            She drifted over to the window and held the pearls up to the light, admiring their luster and sheen.  
            “I love them.”  She smiled over at him, framed in the bright morning sun from the windows, the ghost of her youthful beauty was momentarily restored only to flicker away when she stepped out of the light back into the comfortably dim room.  “What have you selected for your wife?”  
            “A ring is not enough?” he asked with a smile  
            “A ring that is not yet made?” she shifted carefully through the pile of loose stones on the table holding one after another up to the light, examining the workmanship of the cuts and polish.  “No.  That is not enough.  It’s a shame this jeweler died; his work is excellent.”  
            He bit his lip and avoided her eyes.  _It is a shame_.  He unwillingly had liked the old man – the last of Taline’s uncles.  He’d selected a perfect pear-cut diamond pendent for Taline, all the while knowing he was going to die.  


            He’d gone to the jeweler’s shop alone – precisely what he’d warned the fidā'ī he was training against doing – just before the old man closed for the night.  _Never take Cathari alone, their magic is unpredictable_.  The tin bells jangled loudly when he came through the door – another thing he’d warned them against.  _Never let Cathari know you are coming, there is nothing more dangerous than a prepared mage_.  
            “I wondered when you would come for me,” the old man had said, walking past Ezio to lock the shop door and turn the sign to ‘closed.’  “I knew it was only a matter of time.  Why are you killing the line of Hagop?”  
            Ezio scanned the shop as he slowly turned towards the old man, ascertaining that they were alone, a little surprised that he spoke Arabic.  The jeweler chuckled dustily at the flash of gold in his eyes.  
            “We are alone, Assassin.  My sons and daughter are all beyond the veil now, with their mother – may Lilith guide their souls.”  
            “Ai hai Lilitu,” he responded, hesitating slightly over the unfamiliar words he’d learned from Taline as he continued to study the old man.  _My uncle by marriage_.  
            “I ask you again,” the old man said, moving behind the counter, unlocking the cases of jewels.  “Why must we all die?”  
            Ezio stepped forward to study the contents of one of the displays; the case was all pearls.  The glass was cold and smooth under his fingertips and he could feel the fading unbreakable charm one of the old man’s sons had cast over it.  “Once upon a time your eldest brother had a daughter he didn’t protect -”  
            “Taline,” the old man breathed and Ezio felt a chill at the way he had said her name.  “What has become of her?  Tell me she still lives.”  
            “She lives.”  He looked up at the old man, willed the golden cast of a target away to gauge his hostility; the man shimmered a cool aqua, no trace of the red that indicated hostility or aggression.  “She is my wife.”  It felt strange to say it out loud, to acknowledge the bond between himself and the man he was about to kill.  
            The old man closed his eyes with a sigh, touched his fingers to his chest, his lips and his forehead; the blessing of the Cathari.  “Thank the Maker.  Yakob was convinced she had been stolen by slavers; she was such a clever, pretty girl.  So good with languages and mathematics.”  
            “She still is,” he replied stiffly.  
            “Yes, of course,” the old man hastily agreed.  He studied Ezio for a painfully long moment.  “I understand why you are here now.  Old sins cast long shadows.”  
            “Yes,” Ezio agreed softly.  The silence stretched.  
            “Why have I been left for last?” the old man asked as he laid out pieces of jewelry on pieces of thin felt and began carefully rolling them.  
            “It’s how we hunt.  You were the one most likely to draw out the rest of the family.”  
            “Yes, of course.”  The old man continued carefully packing up his jewels.  “The dutiful ones would come to offer support and comfort, and the greedy ones to make sure they don’t get cut out of my will.  Very clever.”  
            “What are you doing?” Ezio asked, watching as the old man emptied yet another case of jewelry.  
            “This is my life’s work.  I assume you’re going to take it all once I’m dead and I don’t want any of it damaged by careless handling,” the old man replied.  He paused to study the brooch in his hand.  “My youngest son made this.  His finest work.”  
            “It’s beautiful,” Ezio said softly.  
            “It’s crude,” the old man corrected him sharply.  “But he had such potential.  Such vision.  In the fullness of time his skills would have surpassed my own.”  
            He reflexively unsheathed his blades at the bitterness in the old man’s voice.  
            “I’m not going to harm you, Assassin-” the old man paused and took a deep, shaky breath and pinned him with a hard, searching look.  “Nephew.”  
            His stomach twisted.  “I can’t spare you.”  
            “And in my dying I am more alive than I have ever been.  I don’t want you to,” the old man replied bitterly.  “Everyone – my children, my brothers, my nieces and nephews – all gone.  Everything I worked my whole life to build has been reduced to ashes in a matter of weeks.  Why would I want to live with that?”  
            “I am sorry, Signore,” he murmured.  The old man’s fatalism and acceptance, while understandable, were a little unsettling; he preferred it when they fought back, when they argued or pleaded, when the target obviously wanted to stay alive.  This felt like a trap, but he had no choice but to walk into it.  
            The old man resumed carefully packing the jewelry, piece by piece.  “You kill people for a living, how sorry can you be?”  
            He rolled his bottom lip over his teeth and prodded it with his tongue.  It wasn’t the sort of question that had a ready answer.  He let the silence unfold around them as the last, slanting rays of daylight faded away.  
            “How is Taline?” the old man asked.  “She was such a lively girl.  She had a smile that made you smile just to see it.  Is she happy?”  
            “She’s well.  She’s been teaching – Turkish and mathematics,” he said haltingly.  “She seems to like the work; it keeps her busy while I’m away.”  
            “Working?” the old man repeated indignantly.  “She should be home, raising her children, not wearing herself down with work.”  He gave Ezio a very critical look.  “You don’t deserve her.”  
            “No, I don’t,” he agreed, leaning his hip against a now empty case.  “I want her to stay home with our children, when the time comes, but we haven’t been blessed yet; our marriage was very recent.”  
            The old man harrumphed in response, brows drawn down into a fierce scowl.  “I can’t believe a man who can’t even manage his own wife was able to kill my boys.”  
            “They did not go easily,” he replied, forcing his tone casual and unconcerned.  “One of them managed to set me on fire.”  
            “Was it Tigran?”  
            He thought for a moment, trying to remember the name he’d crossed out.  “Yes, I believe so.”  
            The old man’s jaw hardened.  “Good.”  
            Ezio snorted back a laugh before he could stop himself and the old man’s disapproving scowl deepened.  He watched his target for a moment, the careful way he wrapped each piece of jewelry, and felt an inexplicable wave of sadness.  The old man reminded him vaguely of his grandfather Cyrus.  _Probably the bitterness and grief_.  
            “I know I have no right to ask anything of you-” he started carefully.  
            “You’re right.  You don’t.”  The old man looked up from the platinum, ruby and diamond pendant he was wrapping.  
            “Will you show me your most beautiful pendant?  Taline will have my family’s jewels when my grandmother falls, but I want her to have something beautiful, from her own family,” he explained awkwardly.  “I think she would appreciate having a piece of jewelry you created.”  
            The old man stiffly put down the piece he was wrapping, carefully selected another bundle and unwrapped it before silently offering it to Ezio.  It was a stunningly simple pendant: a single, flawless, pear-cut diamond, set in delicate platinum.  
            “It’s so simple,” he murmured.  
            “That is the most valuable stone I have ever cut,” the old man replied.  “The most complicated and the most perfect.  Thirty years ago I made that for the favorite wife of a Turkish Pasha, back in Van.  But he didn’t want to pay me for it, so I kept the stone and fled to Yerevan.  I like the thought of Taline wearing a necklace made for a Pasha’s wife while playing on the floor with her children.”  
            “It’s beautiful, Signore.  I think she will like it very much,” he said, carefully rewrapping the pendant and slipping it into the inner pocket of his robes.  
            The old man studied him for a moment before reaching for the pen and pad of paper on a shelf below the counter.  “This is the bank and deposit box number where my brother kept his wife’s jewels.  They belong to Taline now,” he said writing something on the pad.  Ezio couldn’t read it; it was written in what he assumed to be Armenian.  “This is the Firm name and address of our family lawyers, they will have all the wills, deeds and other documents.  These are the cemeteries where we have family plots.  The lawyer can tell you who should be buried where.  Since there will be no one else left, it’s up to you to see to the burials.”  
            “Why would I do that?” he asked slowly.  _He doesn’t really expect me to arrange funerals for the entire family, does he_?  
            “You married Taline, her family is now yours.  It is a question of honor,” the old man said sternly, reminding him again, more strongly this time, of his late grandfather.  “Are you an honorable man?”  
            _God damn it, he does.  
_             “Yes, of course,” he replied.  _Usually._   _Sometimes_.  
            The old man stared at him, the familiar sensation of something foreign moving beneath his skin.  “I hope that is true.”  
            Ezio shrugged away the old man’s magic and his irritation at the implied criticism, plucked up the list the old man had written, checked to make sure the ink was dry, and carefully folded it and stashed it in his pocket.  “Tell me when you are ready to die, Signore.”  


            “What’s wrong, Ezio?” his mother asked with a concerned frown.  
            “Nothing.  I told you I didn’t sleep well.”  He shrugged.  “What’s wrong with Lucia?  She’s acting strangely.”  
            “All these years and you still don’t understand her,” Maria sighed and poured him a cup of coffee.  “You can’t keep using her like that.  It’s not good for any of you.”  
            “I wasn’t using her,” he retorted.  “It was her idea.  And I was weak and frustrated and I made a bad decision.”  
            “Don’t try to blame your misdeeds on her, Ezio.”  His mother paused to take a delicate sip of coffee.  “She’s also hurt that she wasn’t invited to your wedding; that you didn’t tell her about it.”  
            “I’ve barely told anyone,” he protested.  
            “Which is another problem.  When are you going to introduce me to your bride?”  
            “Soon,” he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.  “I wanted her to get somewhat accustomed to our ways before bringing her to Roma.  Everything here is so much different than what she’s familiar with.”  
            “Well then, I’ll have to come visit her then,” his mother decreed.  “And you might have a hands-off chat with Filomena, before you go back, about things you can do to please your wife.”  
            “I don’t need pointers in pleasing women,” he grumbled, eyeing his coffee irritably.  _If I don’t add milk it will taste more like espresso than if I do_.  He flicked his eyes to the small pitcher of milk on the table.  
            “Warm goat’s milk sweetened with honey,” his mother said, following his gaze.  
            He frowned and dragged his eyes back to his coffee; he was very fond of sweet goat’s milk in his coffee.  His mother reached over to nudge the milk pitcher closer to him and he sighed in defeat as he added it to his coffee.  
            His mother looked up at him, reading his strained expression.  “You are old enough to know that we don’t always get the things we want,” she said, holding another stone to the light.  “This is the most flawless emerald I have ever seen, especially for its size,” she marveled.  “The cut and clarity are exceptional.  It might be a bit large for a ring, though.  Especially if she has small hands,” she added as she handed it over to him.  
            He squinted at the stone as he held it up to the light.  It _was_ a beautiful stone, but then, everything the old man had made was beautiful.  He thought of the pasha’s diamond pendant.  “I was thinking maybe a three stone setting.  An emerald centered between two other stones.”  
            “What were you thinking for the other stones?” his mother asked as she examined a rose-cut ruby.  He had about seven of them, really well matched; they would make a lovely bracelet.  
            “I don’t know.  Something meaningful, and pretty.”  He shrugged.  He meant for Taline to have a fortune in jewels, in case anything ever happened to him.  He couldn’t bear the thought of her being left destitute and dependent on hostile in-laws for support, like his mother had been.  
            “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” his mother said, carefully sorting the gems into piles.  “Did you bring anything back for your sister?”  
            He shrugged and tossed the emerald back onto the table where his mother deftly caught it.  “Should I have?  Mari is perfectly capable of picking up her own plunder.”  
            “She’s your sister.”  
            “So?” he asked insolently.  “I’m married now.  Taline needs providing for and I need to start saving for the future; we want a big family.”  
            “Claudia will be glad to hear that.”  
            He grimaced.  “She’s going to be awful to Taline, isn’t she?”  
            “You know how your grandmother is,” his mother sighed.  “Everyone will be happy to see your wife pregnant; they love you so very much.”  
            “I know.”  He drank his coffee with a grimace.  “We don’t really _know_ each other yet – Taline and me – I want us to be _comfortable_ together, you know?  Before I drag her into _this_.”  His gesture encompassed their conversation with a careless sweep of his arm.  
            “So go back to Alamūt and get to know her, passerotto,” he mother said patiently as she swept the gems back into the pouch.  “Woo her, seduce her.  Go out to dinner somewhere nice and flirt with her outrageously.  Take her dancing and have fun being young and alive.  You are easy to love, mio tesoro.  Let her love you.”  
            He forced himself to smile.  “Apparently I’m not that easy to love.”  
            “Ezio-”  
            “You’re my mother; you’re obligated to overlook my faults and think I’m far better than I actually am,” he said dismissively.  “Cristina-” his throat squeezed painfully closed “-stopped loving me, maybe she never did.  I don’t want that happening with Taline.”  
            “Of course she’ll love you; she’s your wife, she _wanted_ to marry you.  Just be kind to her, Ezio.  Kind and _faithful_.”  She gave him a speaking look.  “Go home and make me a grandchild.”  
            “Yes mother,” he mumbled, skin hot with shame and embarrassment.  _Jesus, my balls ache_.


	10. Maria: bedtime story

            Mari gasped awake, shivering and muscles tensed.  _It was just a dream.  Just a bad, bad dream.  It wasn’t real_.  
            “Sleeping beauty finally awakens,” someone murmured in her ear, voice like rich hot chocolate laced with brandy on a cold night.  
            _Cesare_.  She jolted away from him with a sharp screech of panic and knocked a book off of her bedside table with the wild arch of her arm as she waved the lamps to light.  It landed with a loud, somehow hollow-sounding _thunk_ on the stone floor and he briefly grimaced at the sound and sudden light as she turned to face him.  
            “What are you – what are you _doing_ here?” she demanded, trying to shove him away with one hand while clutching her blankets more tightly to her chest with the other.  Her stomach executed a wildly unpleasant, rolling, wrenching flop as she noticed his utter lack of clothing.  “Where in god’s name are your clothes?”  
            “I was watching you sleep, obviously,” his smile was guileless and wide.  “I loved the little sounds you were making, my bitterness.  Were you dreaming of me?”  
            “I was having a nightmare,” she snapped as she shoved at his chest again; she may as well have been pushing against a wall for all the good it did.  
            He arched his eyebrows.  “A nightmare?  Darling, sweet Maria, if you’d stayed asleep a few moments longer your body would have had an orgasm.  You were so close I could _taste it_.”  
            She _hated_ him for the scalding blush that swept across her entire body.  
            “Go away, Cesare,” she mumbled, scowling at the half full glass of water on her bedside table and wondering if it would be worth it to throw it in his face.  _It’ll probably just get my bed all wet_.  
            “Yours taste like fresh lemonade with the barest kiss of cane sugar,” he continued casually as he leaned in to brush his lips against the thin skin behind her ear.  “Positively delicious; just tart enough to be refreshing to a palate such as mine.  I could drink you all night and still want more.”  
            “Stop it,” she hissed, recoiling from his touch.  “Stop lying.  I haven’t, not with – you can’t possibly know how I, how I _taste_.  You’re just saying that to upset me.  Why are you here?  What do you want?  And-where-in-god’s-name-Are-Your-Clothes?  _Jesus Christ_ , Cesare.”  
            She shoved at him again.  His shoulders were broad, thick with corded muscle and his skin had an inhuman hardness to it, silky-satin smooth and pale, except for the scar from Ezio’s blade.  It felt like an unfinished seam under her fingertips, a brutally stark, solitary slash of brackish black-purple against the creamy white gold of his skin.  He sighed in annoyance and leaned back slightly to study her with narrowed eyes.  
            “I’m here because I wanted to see you, I left my clothes-” he paused thoughtfully, then shrugged “-somewhere else, and I’m not lying, by the way, I know _exactly_ how you taste.  Or have you forgotten?”  
            Her breath rattled in her throat as she bolted upright.  Her memories of what happened after their strange conversation that night were blurry and disjointed; she remembered the heat of his mouth against hers, the scrape of his barbs at the back of her throat.  The underwear she’d worn to bed were missing the next morning – she still hadn’t found them – but the medic she’d gone to hadn’t observed any indications of intercourse when she examined her.  _Virgo_ _intacta_ , she’d been told.  He smirked at her and she slapped him across the face so hard it made her hand sting.  
            “Stay away from me you, you _monster_ ,” she snarled.  
            “Stay away you monster, you _monster_ ,” he mimicked in a mocking singsong drawl.  “You are positively priceless, my bitterness.  Put that away,” he added sharply as she drew her blade.  
            “I want you out of my bed, out of my room and to leave me the fuck alone,” she told him softly as she pulled her arm back in preparation to strike.  “I mean it, Cesare.”  
            “Or else what,” he retorted, baring his teeth.  
            “Or else the wound I inflict will make what Ezio did to you look like a scratch.”  
            He laughed, actually laughed, and she hated the way it rippled down her spine, how suddenly aware she was of the tickle between her breasts from the simple gold cross around her neck.  She lashed out in frustration but he was faster, catching her wrists and slamming her back into the mattress.  
            “You’re still so close,” he murmured, brushing his lips against hers.  “It wouldn’t take all that-”  
            She sank her teeth into his bottom lip.  He hissed in pain and sucked his bleeding lip, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.  She obstinately jutted her jaw and curved her lips into a smirk; it felt like drawing on armor.  
            “Be careful, Cesare.  I _bite_ ,” she simpered with saccharine sweetness.  “You might want to more carefully consider what you put near my mouth.”  
            “I _love it_ when you get feisty, darling,” he cooed.  “It makes you taste sweeter.”  
            Her breath hissed between her teeth, she felt so furious and frustrated and helpless to do anything about it that it took all the force of her will to keep her expression perfectly blank, to give nothing away.    
            “Leave me alone,” she replied, whisper soft and venomous.  
            “Hush now, my sweet Maria,” he soothed, repositioning himself so that, while he was still holding her wrists, she was cradled in his arms rather than pinned against the bed.  “Let me tell you a bedtime story.”  
            “Let me go, just let me-”  
            He silenced her with a kiss that made the room spin.  It reminded her of the time she and Giulia stole a bottle of Strega from her mother’s brothel and got drunk – the same reeling off-kilter feeling and slick sloppy kisses, the excitement of doing something dangerous and forbidden.  It felt _wrong_.  Giulia had left for the contract she didn’t come back from three years ago.  
            “Once upon a time and not so very long ago, in a land where men once crowned themselves Cesar,” he began, lips brushing against her ear, the hinge of her jaw and the column of her throat.  
            She groaned and turned her face away from him, wrists twisting in his iron grip.  Her blood felt like Greek fire burning through her veins and she’d never hated herself more than that moment for the way her treacherous body responded to him, for the shameful desire coursing through her like venom.  _This is his doing, his magic, neither your will nor desire_ , she reminded herself, but it felt less and less true.  
            “A beautiful woman, trapped in an unhappy marriage far from her home, was watching over her youngest son as he slept and whispered her wish for a daughter.  It had been years since the woman had born her youngest child and she feared she wouldn’t have another because her husband seemed to frequent every bed but her own.”  One of his hands slid from her wrists to ease the covers down her body.  
            “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, struggling to stay focused, to ignore the intensifying ache she felt for him.  He hummed against her lips and slid the kurta she’d taken from her brother up her thighs.  She felt him removing her underwear and briefly struggled before she allowed it, helped him, welcoming the cold night air on her overheated skin.  His body felt like sun-warmed marble as she gripped his hip with her free hand – to pull him closer, _no_ , to push him away.  
            “In her loneliness the woman had taken a lover, and he had heard her whispered wish for a daughter.  The lover offered the woman a deal: he could compel the husband to her bed and ensure that she conceived a daughter, but the child would be his.  The Maraas will always claim what we’ve been promised.”  
            Mari felt a chill down her spine that cut through the haze clouding her mind as she realized what Cesare was telling her.  His smile twisted as he watched the understanding dawn across her face.  
            “I don’t belong to you,” she snapped.  “I don’t belong to anyone but myself.”  
            “How precious you are,” he chuckled wryly.  
            “Least of all to my mother’s-” she hesitated.  “My mother’s _cicisbeo,_ ” she hissed with as much venom as she could muster.  
            He laughed softly under his breath.  “Did your scholar friend look that word up for you?  I wonder where he found the time; he’s been keeping so busy with your little pet project.”  
            She felt her body go cold with sudden fear, stomach twisting and aching with the bitterness and bile of it.  
            “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Cesare,” she replied, proud of how even and disinterested she managed to sound.  
            “Don’t you now?” he hummed, fingertips ghosting over her thighs.  “I’ll allow you and your friend your little treasure hunt.”  His teeth felt needle-sharp against her skin when he nipped her earlobe.  “Even if you find all the answers you seek it won’t change anything.”  
            “Why are you doing this?”  
            “It’s complicated, my bitterness,” he murmured against her skin.  “It is, after all, better to be at the devil’s right hand than directly in her path.  And Siro won’t stop, she’s worked towards this for so long-”  
            “Towards what, Cesare?” she murmured as she massaged her fingers along his hip, trying to absorb all the things he was telling her, memorize exactly how he was saying them.  
            “You aren’t the only one who’s been promised to the Maraas, my bitterness.  Dear Altaïr has been sold to Siro several times over.”  
            She felt a little sick.  _My mother would never promise me to a monster_.  
            “We’re not for sale.”  
            “Don’t be naïve, anyone can be bought, for the right price.  Your great and revered Al Mualim ordered Altaïr to take Sirocco to his bed and provide _whatever_ pleasures she desired, for _the greater good of the Order_ ,” Cesare cooed, smile widening viciously.  “Did anyone ever tell you that?  He was twenty, the same age you are now, in fact.  What a _charming_ coincidence.”  
            Now she _definitely_ felt sick.  She knew Al Mualim was unquestionably fond of Altaïr and a top down order sanctioning her cousin’s dangerous relationship with the succubus explained why everyone else just accepted it, but it frightened her that the Mentor was willing to risk losing a fidā'ī as valuable to the Order as Altaïr just to appease the Maraas; it meant no one would lift a finger to help her if Cesare decided to claim her for himself.  
            “I don’t believe you.”  
            “You could always ask,” he pointed out.  “They’re both here, in this very fortress.  I’d ask Jamil – he’s more likely to give you any sort of answer – you know how very _awkward_ and _repressed_ your cousin is when it comes to any physical contact that doesn’t involve stabbing or slicing.”  
            “Fine then, I will.  And Altaïr is not _repressed_ ,” she hissed, cheeks flaming hot.  
            Cesare snorted disbelievingly.  “Do you understand what that word even means, my bitterness?  Because, I assure you, repressed is a rather _mild_ term for what’s wrong with him.”  
            “There’s nothing wrong with him,” she snapped, even though she was pretty sure there were quite a few things wrong with her enigmatic cousin; he was still _family_ after all.  
            Cesare shifted position, cradling her closer and sliding his knee upwards between her thighs as his hand wandered.  It was… _distracting_.  She focused on her resentment and anger.  
            “Have you told Altaïr about your young man?” he inquired with a disingenuous smile.  “Since he’s so _normal_ and _well-adjusted_ , which will be _so_ useful in tempering Ezio’s overprotective brotherly rage when you tell _him_.”  
            Anything else she might have been feeling was drowned out in a deluge of icy-bright panic.  
            “What are you talking about, Cesare?  I haven’t got a young man,” she gulped, squirming in an attempt to disguise the sudden flash of tension through her body.  _Hiro_.  She had been seeing him for secret, or so she thought, for several weeks now.  She hadn’t even really told her friends about him – except for Seamus, she pretty much told Shay everything.  Zahra was probably starting to get suspicious at how Hiro always somehow turned up when they went out and she then spent the entire night dancing exclusively with him.  She knew Zahra had noticed her absences when she slipped away to neck with Hiro in private, dimly lit corners.  
            “You are very lucky I find it so charming when you try to lie to me, my bitterness,” he murmured, nuzzling her curls aside to nibble along her neck as he ghosted his fingertips down over her hipbones and lower still.  
            “I’m not, I’m not lying,” she protested, trying to close her legs as his hand slid even lower.  _Forgive me, Hiro_.  Her breath caught when his fingers brushed against a particularly sensitive spot and she was embarrassed and ashamed and _resentful_ of the heat that bloomed between her thighs.  _Damn him_.  She seriously considered sinking her teeth into the hard slope of his shoulder, so temptingly close to her mouth.  
            “Don’t!” she snapped as he nudged a finger just barely inside her.  
            “Don’t what?” he inquired insolently.  “I’ve waited years for you to grow up, for our time.  I should have taken a page from Siro’s book and given you little tastes all along, ruined you for your own kind.  It would make it easier for you to take me inside you, to unashamedly enjoy being with me.  You’ve already got a taste for it, haven’t you, my bitterness?”  
            “No, I haven’t!” she protested as he touched her again.  She could feel her muscles clenching, toe-curing tension starting to coil.  
            “He hasn’t touched you like this, has he?”  His breath was cold against her throat.  “Your young man.  I’ll be your first, won’t I?  You poor child, after a Maraas, no mere man will ever satisfy you.”  
            “I don’t want you.  I don’t belong to you.  I want you to stop-” she sputtered.  
            “I don’t think you do, Maria.  Be honest now,” he purred.  
            “I want you to leave me alone,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken.  “I don’t even like you-”  
            “Overlooking the fact that you’re _lying_ about all of that – you’re so deliciously close, I can already taste it – wherever did you get the idea that _liking_ someone is a prerequisite for a satisfying sexual relationship?”  
            She slammed her knee up and he rolled away from her with a pained grunt.  
            “My, you _are_ feisty tonight,” he commented with calculating, narrowed eyes.  
            “I can and will scream,” she reminded him as he sidled closer again.  
            “But you won’t.”  
            “And why won’t I?”  
            Cesare swayed into her personal space, so close they were practically nose to nose.  “Because if you scream, you can’t ask me about Lilith… and Gēhannā.”  
            She hesitated and his smile widened.  Her molars squeaked as she clenched her teeth.  
            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she sniffed.  
            “Quite possibly the first true thing you’ve said all evening, my bitterness,” he chortled smugly.  She wanted to slap him, again.  “Be sweet to me, Maria.  We both know you won’t like it if I have to force you.”  
            “You would, wouldn’t you,” she said softly.  “Force me.  I wonder why you haven’t already.”  
            “It tastes better when I don’t.”  
            She shuddered and turned away from him.  “Well, that’s some comfort, at least.”  
            “But we both know I won’t have to, will I?” he hummed as he settled behind her, curving his body to her contours.  “You’re tempted to say yes to me right now, aren’t you, my bitterness?”  
            _A little, maybe.  
_             “No.  Not in the slightest,” she bit out.  
            “Liar,” he breathed against the side of her neck.  “Are you doing your best to think of your _widow’s son_?”  
            _Hiro!_   She stifled her reaction just in time.  “I’m sorry, Cesare, who?”  
            “Hiram Vuković, from Slunj, Croatia.  How fickle you are to have forgotten his name already,” he hummed.  “But then, I already knew that about you.”  
            “Oh, him?” she replied with studied disinterest.  “He’s fun to dance with.  It’s nothing serious.”  _Forgive me, Hiro_.  
            “It’s quite reckless – even for you – to keep slipping away for clandestine meetings with _nothing serious_ in the Garden,” he said severely.  “Where does he kiss you, Maria?  How far do you let it go?”  
            “I don’t meet anyone in the Garden-” she protested, gut clenching with guilt and fear.  _He sounds… jealous?  Do the Maraas even feel jealousy?  
_             “Stop lying to me, Maria.  I don’t like other people touching my things.”  
            “I’m not a _thing_!” she snapped.  “I don’t belong to you, and you’re – you’ve been _spying_ on me!”  
            “Hardly.  Merely keeping an eye on a favorite possession,” he countered smoothly.  “Your order has a history of taking things that don’t belong to them, of stealing from my people-”  
            “Your people?” she scoffed.  “You aren’t a _person_ , Cesare.  Your kind aren’t _people_ , they’re creatures, _monsters_ , not people.”  
            “Monsters _your family_ has a long tradition of fucking; each generation selling the next.”  
            She blinked and rolled over to face him.  “Excuse me?”  
            He smiled serenely.  “Your mother sold you, Aaliyah sold Altaïr – do you want to hazard a guess as to which of his three daughters your grandfather traded to us for the _greater good of the Order_?”  
            “My mother would never sell me,” she contradicted him sharply.   
            “Sold, bartered, used as collateral,” he shrugged.  “They all essentially mean the same thing, it’s just a question of semantics.  Which term do you prefer I use, my bitterness?”  
            “None, because it never happened.”  She sat up and hugged the covers to her chest tightly.  _I should just leave.  Put my robes on and dash out the door before anything else happens_.  She flicked her eyes between her robes and the door, calculating how long it would take her to grab that article of clothing before dashing out the door.  Casually she slid off the bed.  
            “Going somewhere, my bitterness?” Cesare purred behind her.  
            “If you’re going to stay and chat I want my robes.  Alamūt gets so chilly on winter nights,” she replied, carefully keeping her tone casual, her movements languid and unhurried.  She couldn’t let him suspect anything if she wanted to escape her room with minimum noise and fuss.   
            “Come back to bed and I’ll kindle such a fire in you,” he purred.  “I know you’re curious.  I know you want to know what it feels like.  Come here and I’ll teach you, sweet Maria.”  
            “No thanks, I have zero interest in experiencing that with you,” she spat, snatching her robes off the edge of her desk where she’d thrown them before crawling into bed earlier that evening.  He was suddenly behind her, pulling her roughly back against himself, sharp teeth and possessive hands roaming over her body.  She hadn’t even heard him leave the bed.  
            “He can’t have you, Maria,” he hissed in her ear.  “This-” his hand slid down to cup the place between her legs “-isn’t yours to give whoever strikes your fancy.  It’s _mine_ , and I won’t have it contaminated-”  
            She twisted free of his grasp – with the aid of a very sharp jab to his solar plexus – and ran for the door.  She was still trying to wrench it open – _of course it sticks now, god-fucking-dammit_ – when a hard arm slid around her waist and yanked her back towards the bed.  
            “Let me go,” she screeched, thrashing against him, blindly clawing at his face.  “No!  No!  Let! Me! Go-”  
            A hard blow to the side of her head stunned her into silence.  
            “You aren’t thinking very clearly, my bitterness,” he murmured as he nuzzled against the stinging side of her face, breath stirring the curls tucked behind her ear.  “That tendency to lose your head under pressure, your irrepressible impulsiveness, is what cost you the promotion to Mercenary – oh yes, my bitterness, I know all about _that_.”  
            She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.  _Fucked.  I am so fucked.  Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum_ …  Cesare dumped her back onto the bed and then slithered next to her, coiling his body around hers.  
            She started crying.  She didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, but it happened anyway; hot salty tears burning her eyes and blurring her vision.  
            “What’s this, my bitterness?  Womanly tears?”  He clucked his tongue disapprovingly.  
            She managed to connect her fist to his throat and in the time he spent coughing and gagging she got the door open.  There wasn’t anyone in the hallway to see him yank her back into her room.  
            “Why are you so resistant?  It doesn’t have to be like this, you know,” he lectured as he dumped her back onto her bed for the second time that evening.  “Wouldn’t it be easier to let yourself enjoy what I can offer?”  He settled beside her and stroked her cheek gently with his fingertips.  Her skin tingled beneath his fingers and she recognized the early symptoms of his thrall by that familiar sensation, like a string of fireworks being set off along her nerves, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.  He started kissing her, tongue sliding between her teeth, his barbs scraping against her lower lip, her soft pallet, and she tried to think of Hiro as her back ached and her blood heated.  
            “Let me hold you while you sleep; I’ve been so very cold.”  


            “Virgo intacta,” the medic reported with a questioning quirk of her brows as she peeled off her rubber gloves.  “What’s going on Mari?  You can tell me if something’s the matter.”  
            She’d woken up alone with a heavy ache in her loins and the underwear she’d worn to bed were nowhere to be found.  She’d skipped breakfast and gone straight to the infirmary and asked the medic on duty, Yusriyah Shaitana, for a pelvic exam.  
            “I keep having these dreams – nightmares, really – and they feel so, so _real_ , I just need to know nothing happened,” she explained awkwardly, twisting her fingers together as she sat up and avoided the medic’s eyes.  
            “I can give you something for that – dreamless sleep – if you’d like,” Yusriyah offered.  “And something for that bruise on the side of your face.  Was it a training accident?  You should let me check you don’t have a concussion,” she added with a concerned frown.  
            “Yeah, could you take care of it?  I didn’t realize it was that obvious,” she replied with a self-deprecating grimace as she gingerly touched the crest of her cheek, just below her eye.  _So it had bruised, god damn it Cesare_.  
            Yusriyah shook her head and clucked her tongue reprovingly.  “I’m surprised a blow like that didn’t split the skin; it left quite a nasty bruise.”  
            “Just got lucky, I guess,” Mari mumbled, trying not to wince as the medic rubbed a strongly aromatic unguent into her injury.  Her eye started to tear from its stinging vapors. “Gods wounds, that stuff smells!”  
            “It also works,” the medic replied primly as she wiped her hands clean on a spare towel she’d pulled from the pocket of her robes.  “I’ll send an order for those dreamless sleep potions to the dispensary.  They should have them ready for you later this afternoon.”  
            “Yeah, thanks,” Mari mumbled, picking at the side of her thumb.  
            “Is there something else I could do for you, Mari?” Yusriyah asked gently when she didn’t stand to leave.  
            _I don’t belong to you, Cesare Maraas_.  
            “Yeah, um,” she bit her lip and would have given anything not to blush as her cheeks heated.  “I’ve been seeing this guy and…”  
            “Did that _love tap_ come from him, by any chance?”  
            “What?  No!” she exclaimed in surprise.  “Hiro would never, he’s not that type of man!”  
            “That bruise didn’t happen during training; they’d have sent you to get it looked at straight away if someone landed a blow like that.”  Yusriyah’s tone had gone brittle around the edges.  
            “I woke up with it this morning,” she admitted carefully.  “Which is probably the main reason I hot-footed it over here so early.”  She twisted her fingers together and glared at the wall.  “Way too real dreams are one thing, but waking up with an injury I didn’t go to bed with is a whole other level.”  
            “Your reaction is perfectly understandable; you did the right thing,” Yusriyah soothed as she drew her blades to cast.  “Are there any gaps in your memories from last night?  Any other injuries you can’t recall receiving?”  
            “No.  Not that I’ve noticed, at least.”  She flinched as the medic’s diagnostic spell slithered over her skin.  “What are you looking for?”  
            “Charms, hexes, enchantments.  Anything unusual, really,” Yusriyah replied.  Her eyes shone gold as she examined her carefully.  
            She tried not to fidget and wondered, not for the first time, how Altaïr could be so comfortable and unconcerned with the constant scrutiny he was under.  _I’ll never get used to being inspected like livestock at auction.  
_             “Seeing anything?” she finally couldn’t resist asking when the medic hummed thoughtfully.  _Like maybe incubus handprints all over my body?_  
            “Yes and no.”  Yusriyah circled around her and frowned thoughtfully, a sharp crease appearing between her brows.  
            Mari held her tongue an impatient moment longer.  “That’s not a very reassuring answer, you know.”  
            “My apologies.”  The gold slid from the medic’s eyes as she sheathed her blades.  “I didn’t find any evidence of spellwork-”  
            A breath of relief escaped Mari’s lips; she hadn’t known what she expected Yusriyah to see or not to see, but it was a welcomed reprieve to not have to come up with a plausible explanation for that, at least.  
            “- but there are traces of an unusually powerful magic throughout your body.  It seems to have targeted your nervous system, but that’s just my best guess.  I’ve never seen a magical signature like this before.”  
            _It might look more familiar if you got a good look at my cousin, post-Sirocco_ , she thought grimly.  
            “What does that mean?” she asked, shifting her weight uncomfortably.  
            “I can’t say for sure,” Yusriyah hummed as she furiously jotted notes in Mari’s file.  “But it’s certainly interesting.”  
            _Well that’s just swell_ , she thought with a sharp spike of irritation.  _Now I’m a medical curiosity.  Thanks ever so, Cesare_.  
            “That’s not especially reassuring,” she replied, going for wry, but it came out far too grim.  
            “I’m sorry, Mari,” Yusriyah said in her _soothing doctor_ _voice_.  “This doesn’t look like Assassin magic.  My best guess is that it’s somehow related to the dreams you mentioned.  We’ll try the dreamless sleep potion for now and see if that resolves it.”  
            “And if it doesn’t,” she asked hesitantly.  
            “Then we’ll reevaluate your symptomology and go from there,” Yusriyah replied smoothly.  “Was there something else you wanted to ask me about, concerning the young man you’ve been seeing?”  
            Mari noted the medic’s abrupt change of topic with relief and amusement, mixed with something else she didn’t want to try too hard to identify.  She was glad to be off a subject bordering so closely to Cesare and potential family secrets she didn’t feel like sharing.  
            “Um, yeah.”  She made a show of dropping her eyes and shuffling her feet.  “I’ve been seeing this really great guy – nice and funny and sweet, great dancer too – and I think we might, um, be getting more _serious_ , you know?” she mumbled.  The blush she felt burning across her cheeks was entirely unintended.  _God, this is awkward_.  “But I’m not ready to sign my name away and have kids with him or anything – at least not yet.  Can you help me?”  
            “Of course.  It’s very responsible of you to consider the possible consequences before the situation arises.  Usually I get a variation of these questions after the fact.”  Yusriyah smiled at her encouragingly when she glanced up from the floor tiles she’d been meticulously studying.  “Any idea of the kind of prophylactics you’d be interested in?”  
            She tried to swallow the nervous knot in her throat.  “Um, the kind that work?”  
            “That had been my presumption, yes,” the medic chuckled.  “There are a couple different options, all of which are quite effective when used properly, but with different benefits and drawbacks.”  
            “Such as?” she asked, glancing towards the not quite shut door nervously.  
            Yusriyah smiled encouragingly and closed the door with a casual curl of her fingers.  
            “The least invasive and most common one is what’s colloquially referred to as a ‘morning-after’ potion – as the name suggests, you take it after intercourse to avoid conception.  The drawbacks are, of course, that you have to actually remember to take it during the brief window when it’s most effective.  It also tastes rather terrible and frequent usage builds up a tolerance, making it less effective over time.”  
            “So it’s better as an emergency measure?” she asked, throwing another nervous glance towards the door.  The air rippled like wind over still water as Yusriyah cast a silence and then turned back to her with a reassuring smile.  
            “Generally speaking, yes.  But it’s also a good choice for relationships where the couple spends long periods of time apart, provided they are monogamous, of course.  The periods of celibacy – where the person won’t take the potion at all – are very effective at preventing tolerance.”  Yusriyah turned and opened one of the drawers of the shelf behind her.  She drew out two small objects and turned back to Mari.  
            “The other options are primarily physical barriers to conception, so tolerance is not a concern, and since they are internal devices you don’t have to worry about taking them in time.  I think either of these two options would be a good choice for you.  The first-” she held up an inscribed metal ring too large to fit on any finger “- is what’s called ‘the ring,’ for fairly obvious reasons.”  
            Mari gulped a nervous breath; she had feeling she already knew where the ring was supposed to go.  “How does it work?”  
            “The ring is inserted and positioned so that it encircles your cervix.  These inscriptions-” Yusriyah indicated the markings etched all around the surface of the ring “- create a one-way barrier; menstrual blood comes out, but nothing gets in.”  
            “And it just what, stays inside me all the time?  That doesn’t sound very comfortable,” she said, eyeing the ring doubtfully.  
            “It’s less intrusive than a tampon, you’ll hardly notice it’s there,” Yusriyah explained, turning the ring over on her outstretched palm.  
            “ _Hardly_ noticing, is not the same thing as _not_ noticing,” she replied, gnawing the edge of her bottom lip.  
            “Mari-”  
            “I know, I’m sorry!  It’s just, a ring of metal… that gets shoved up inside me.  What’s to keep it from, I don’t know, falling out, or something?”  
            “Of course slippage is a concern,” Yusriyah admitted.  “But less of one than you might think.  Once the ring is properly seated-”  
            “Seated?” Mari interrupted, eyes narrowing.  “Like how a Ferrymen’s Ring is seated?”  
            “Yes.”  
            Mari winced.  The rings the Masters wore – the Ferrymen’s Ring – were specially forged for each individual Master, similar to how blades were forged, and then ‘seated’ over a fresh cut around their finger.  The ring fused with the blood, creating a nearly unbreakable bond; as long as they lived, no one but the bearer themselves could remove the ring from their finger, and the ring would kill any other who put it on.  The bond broke upon death and the rings would pass to the Masters’ widows, children, next of kin.  Her uncle had her father’s ring, even though it should have gone to her mother.  Kadija wore Aaliyah’s on a chain around her neck.  
            “Any other drawbacks I should know about?” she asked with grim resolution.  
            “It is possible, under certain conditions, that your partner will be able to feel the ring inside you,” the medic replied.  “But not everyone experiences this; it’s largely a matter of position and the physical characteristics of the individuals involved.”  
            “Peachy.”  Mari frowned and gnawed her bottom lip nervously.  Cesare would know she was lying about her relationship with Hiro if he somehow found out she was using contraceptives.  _But that requires him finding out, and it’s my damn body.  
_             “How’s that other thing work?” she asked, jabbing her chin towards the second object Yusriyah had retrieved from the drawer.  _I don’t belong to you, Cesare Maraas_.  
            Yusriyah set the ring down and held up the other object, a narrow, double pointed copper cylinder.  “This is placed in your uterus itself.  It prevents implantation and is highly effective.”  
            “And my, uh, _partner_ won’t be able to feel it while we’re…” she trailed off with a fiery blush.  _God, this is awkward_.  
            “No, Yusriyah confirmed slowly.  “But, because you haven’t had any children, insertion will be painful, and many women experience a heavier menstrual flow and more severe cramping while the device is in place.  It can also be difficult to remove.”  
            “Jesus Christ!  Why would anyone actually want one of those?” she asked, reflexively pressing her thighs together with a shudder.  
            Yusriyah smiled wryly.  “Because they don’t want their partner to know that they want to prevent pregnancy.  Maybe because they don’t want any more children, or any children at all, or their partner strongly disapproves of contraception, or maybe they just want a love affair without complications.”  Yusriyah shrugged.  “You should choose whichever method you feel is best for you.”  
            Mari hesitated, picking at a piece of dry skin on her bottom lip nervously.  “I guess the ring?  I don’t have to wear it all the time, right?”  
            “No, you don’t have to wear it all the time,” Yusriyah confirmed.  “But it’s probably less trouble overall if you do; less concerns about misplacing it or introducing bacteria or other foreign matter – like dust – inside yourself if you just leave it in.  Most female fidā'ī use some form of barrier contraceptives just in case they are raped on a contract; no one would question why you have it.”  
            “My brother would, and my uncle,” she replied with a scowl.  _Judgmental, nosey old hens.  Altaïr, to his credit, probably wouldn’t understand why he should care one way or the other.  
_             “What you do with your vagina is really none of their business,” the medic replied, eyes narrowing.  “Besides, they don’t have access to your gynecological records, not without special permission from the head medic, and Fatima doesn’t give permission easily.  Especially to male relatives.”  
            “Well, that’s something to be grateful for, at least,” Mari muttered.  The piece of skin she’d been picking at came off and her lip started bleeding.  She sighed.  “How does one go about getting a ring?  Are they something you have, like, a stock of?”  
            “They’re made to order.  I’ll need to send the smiths an impression of your cervix and a vial of your blood,” Yusriyah replied, tone crisply clinical as she removed a medallion of soft baby-pink wax from a drawer behind her and started unwrapping it.  She set the unwrapped wax on a stainless steel tray and pulled a fresh speculum out of the autoclave.  “Shall we get this done now?  It won’t take very long and you’re already undressed.”  
            “Sure, why not?”  She grimaced at the speculum.  “What’s a little more stretching and prodding?  I’ve already mostly missed breakfast anyway.”  
            “That’s the spirit,” Yusriyah said with a wry smile Mari preferred to the _soothing doctor voice_ she sometimes used.  “Try to relax, this won’t take very long.”  
            “Easy for you to say,” she grunted, wrinkling her nose at the feeling of the cold metal.  “Oh god, that’s cold!”  
            “Deep breaths.”  
            She sighed.  _This had better be worth it_.


	11. Ezio: cold comfort [1 of 2]

            Ezio eased open the door and slipped into his rooms.  The trip back to Alamūt from Roma was not a physically grueling journey, but he felt drained from it nonetheless; reporting the contract’s completion to Al Mualim hadn’t helped his energy levels much either.  He wanted to be clean for Taline and had stopped by the bathhouse before returning to their rooms.  His hair was still damp from the shower, cheeks soft and smooth after his shave.  He’d washed thoroughly, twice, just to be safe that no trace of Lucia lingered on his skin.  A quick glance told him that his wife still slept as he silently closed the door behind himself.  He slid a small vial from his pocket and tipped one of Asad’s potions down his throat and then skinned off his clothing as he approached the bed, shivering at the chill in the air and eager to be reunited with his wife.  He slithered beneath the covers and brushed his lips against the soft curve of her shoulder.  
            Her reaction was swift and violent – the wave of telekinetic force that she summoned hurtled him from the bed.  It was only his years of training and own magical abilities that kept him from being splattered against the wall.  As it was, she solidly knocked the wind out of him.  
            “Taline, it’s okay,” he gasped out quickly, before she could summon another blast.  “It’s me mogliettina.”  
            “E-Ezio?” she asked uncertainly.  
            “Yeah, bellissima,” he wheezed.  “Let me come to bed?  It’s cold out here.”  _Cazzo, she’s strong_ , he marveled as he waived a lamp to light and crept back to the bed.  
            “You startled me.  I didn’t know it was you, varpet,” she explained in a rush, voice tight with tension as she hugged the covers more tightly to her chest.  Her hair was loose, tumbled down around her shoulders, framing her wide, anxious eyes, her plump, velvety lips and the long pale column of her throat; she was biting her bottom lip nervously and the sight of that gesture set his blood on fire.  _Down,_ _Ezione._  
            “I know,” he soothed.  “I didn’t mean to scare you, mogliettina, I thought I would wake you up gently, but that didn’t seem to go over very well.”  
            “I’m sorry,” she repeated as he pushed her back, beneath him on the bed.  
            “It’s okay, mogliettina,” he assured her again, carefully unfastening the buttons down the front of the navy kurta she was wearing.  He recognized it as his, one his mother had had made for him, the fabric thin and delicate, heavy with white embroidery.  Taline’s breasts fit perfectly in his hands he couldn’t help noticing as he fondled her, kissing and suckling until her nipples rose in pebbled hard peaks against his palms and she squirmed beneath him, soft impatient whimpers escaping from her lips.  
            “I missed you,” he mumbled against the thin skin of her throat between kisses.  “I thought about you all the time.  Did you miss me too?”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she breathlessly replied.  “I missed you terribly.  I, I liked the letters you sent me,” she hesitantly added.  
            “Yeah?” he murmured hopefully as he eased the kurta up her thighs.  She wasn’t wearing underwear; his breath caught when he saw that she’d had herself sugared almost completely smooth.  “Did you have this done for me?” he asked, ghosting his fingertips over her silky-bare skin.  He desperately wanted to kiss her there, taste her intimate juices and feel her writhing under his tongue from an orgasm he’d given her.  He forced himself to take a slow breath and pulled the kurta off over her head before settling her back into his arms.  It felt good to hold her, to feel her warm body against his own.  It felt _right_.  
            “I had it done when I got your latest letter saying you were coming back.  Does it please you?” she asked, squirming under his lustful gaze.  
            “I love your sweet figa either way,” he assured her as he guided her hand to his groin.  “I had something done for you, too.”  He hummed with pleasure as she touched him, at the way she gently caressed his testicles and stroked his length.  He gasped when she slithered down to brush her lips against his sensitive tip.  
            “You’re so soft and smooth,” she murmured.  “You had this done just for me?”  
            “Yeah, mogliettina, just for you.  I’ve never sugared my balls for anyone else.”  His breath hissed between his teeth as she pressed an open-mouthed kiss against him, his breathing fluttering, fracturing.  
            He’d gone to the woman who sugared his mother’s whores, determined, but embarrassed at the thought of what, exactly, he’d had done becoming further gossip fodder within the Order; as expected, the woman was unfazed by his request.  It had been Cesare’s suggestion.  
            _At the very least, she’ll appreciate the gesture_ , the incubus had said with a shrug.  
            _But she’ll probably like it, right?_ he’d pressed.  
            _You know, she’ll have to touch you there if you get it done_ , was Cesare’s disinterested response as he idly flipped through an illustrated folio, which had been enough to sway him.  
            To describe the process as ‘unpleasant’ was, as far as he was concerned, criminal misrepresentation – it had hurt like hell – _but so totally worth it_ , he thought as Taline sheathed him in her mouth.  She was obviously inexperienced – with any type of sex, and with touching the male body in general, really – but eager to please him; he found it endearing.  
            “Be careful with your teeth, mogliettina,” he groaned, sinking his fingers into her silky hair, hips twitching with the urge to thrust.  “Feels so good.  God, I missed you.”  She squeaked in surprise when he pulled her up along his body, guiding her mouth to his.  “I want to kiss you here,” he murmured between aggressive, deep kisses as he thrust his fingers inside her.  “Will you let me?”  
            “Ezio, no, please.  I don’t like that, varpet,” she protested.  Her flesh was deliciously twitchy and slick, tensing and tightening around his fingers.  
            “You ready for me?  Christ, your figa must taste so good, dripping with milk and honey.  Let me make love to you, Taline?  Please?  Let me?”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she whispered against him, breath fanning hotly against the side of his neck as he positioned himself above her.  “Please...”  Her fingers curled into the meat of his shoulders as he tried to penetrate her.  Her body was slippery, but tight – too tight – as he pressed against her entrance.  She whimpered.  
            “Open your legs wider, let me inside you,” he panted, frustration mounting as he slid upwards instead of inside her, like he so desperately wanted.  
            “I’m trying.”  
            He tried to guide himself into her, using his fingers to spread her open.  She dug her nails into his shoulders with a sharply bitten off noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob when he just barely breached her.  It hurt _so much_ that that Taline clearly didn’t like his body as much as he loved hers.  He had never had this much difficulty with any of the other women he had slept with.  He didn’t understand why it was so hard for him to fit inside her, what he was doing _wrong_ , how to make it _right_.  
            “Why don’t you want me?” he demanded, throat tight and stinging and he was furious with himself for being so close to tears.  Her nails were cutting painfully into his shoulders and her body was fighting against him, trying to push him out.  
            “I do!” she protested.  “I do want you, Ezio.  Please-”  
            He growled in frustration and snatched her hands from his shoulders, pinning her wrists above her head as he slammed his pelvis against hers, forcing his whole length inside her.  The sound she made was horrible, like the blood curdling scream of a rabbit.  He recoiled and she scrabbled off the bed, away from him.  He could hear the uneven slap of her bare feet on the stone floor as she ran out of their room, the painfully solid _thunk_ of a body colliding with wood and then her sobs echoing off the bathroom walls.  
            “Taline!” he called, stumbling a few steps after her before he saw the blood on his cock.  _Her blood_.  He swayed with vertigo, everything spinning, whirling off kilter.  He wiped at the blood with in thoughtless panic, trying to clean himself off before Taline saw it and then froze, swaying on the spot as he stared at her blood on his hands.  _Monster, Murderer…_   He was reeling, ears ringing and skin suddenly drenched in clammy cold sweat.  _Children, I killed children_.  It wasn’t the bodies of those children he saw when he closed his eyes, however, it was Darium and Cyrus, Sakineh and Malik’s twins.  It was too much, just like the nightmares that had started in Armenia, but he was already awake and her blood was real, sticky on his skin and the air he was breathing was heavy with the coppery tang of it; he dropped to his knees and vomited, over and over again until not even bile was left.  His hands were shaking so badly he had to cast the vanishment twice.  
            He staggered to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom sink to rinse his mouth out, cupping his hands beneath the tap and slurping great mouthfuls.  He could taste the blood on his hands in the water and retched again over the sink.  He scrubbed her blood off his skin and splashed his face with cold water before turning towards Taline.  She was curled up inside the bathtub; he could hear her still crying softly, and there was a thin wet ribbon snaking towards the drain from between her legs, gleaming darkly in the silvery starlight from the skylights above.  His heart wrenched in his chest.  
            “Taline?”  
            She turned towards him, pushing her hair back from her face with a watery sniff.  She was shivering and her eyes were puffy from crying.  He felt like a brute.  
            “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  His throat was tight and his heart felt too big for his chest, pounding painfully against his ribs.  _Don’t be selfish, you stronzo._ He took a deep breath.  
            “You’re shaking like a leaf, mogliettina, are you cold?” he asked her gently.  It hurt so much that she flinched when he touched her shoulder.  “Come here, let me hold you.”  
            “I’m bleeding,” she protested.  “I’ll get blood on you.”  
            “I don’t care,” he insisted.  “I just, I just need to hold you.  Please?”  
            She hesitated long enough for him to wonder if she was going to say no before she moved into his arms.  He hugged her close, burying his face in her silky hair, and felt some of the tension melt from his shoulders.  He wanted to kiss her, touch her, feel her touching him; blood splattered on the top of his foot when she shifted in his arms.  
            “Is that,” he hesitated.  “Are you bleeding because of me?”  
            “No,” she finally said after a painfully long pause.  “Not because of you.”  
            “Oh.”  His throat felt tight.  “Your last letter, you sounded so anxious for my return.  I thought, maybe – I hoped – you had something you wanted to tell me in person, some big news…” he trailed off and swallowed unsteadily.  _I thought you were going to tell me that we’re going to have a baby_.  
            “I-” a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks “-I just really missed you.”  She hugged him tighter.  “I’m lonely here without you, varpet.”  
            It was painful to hear her say that, knowing how unworthy of her he had been, how she’d recoil from him if she knew what he really was.  _Cheater.  Killer.  Monster_.  He hated himself.  _I should have never forced her into this life_.  
            “I missed you too.  I thought about you all the time.  Couldn’t wait to come back and be with you,” he whispered.  “I visited my mother, on the way back.  She wants to meet you.”  He leaned down to kiss her forehead and she rose up on her toes to press her lips to his.  She opened her mouth to him and she tasted like violets and ashes and ice water and he wished she would kiss him like this forever.  
            “It’s cold, varpet,” she murmured against his hungry mouth.  “Can we go to bed?”  
            “Yeah, okay,” he replied, gathering her slight body in his arms.  She was lighter than her remembered her being.  “Did you lose some weight, mogliettina?” he asked as he gently set her on the bed.  “Has everything been okay?”  
            “I-I got sick, while you were away,” she replied, eyes downcast, watching her hands as she twisted the blankets between her fingers.  
            “It wasn’t serious, was it?” he asked, annoyed that he hadn’t been informed.  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”  
            “I didn’t want to worry you,” she replied quickly, reaching over to brush her fingers across her signature on his chest.  He closed his eyes and savored the sensation, the tingling warmth in the scar tissue when she touched it.  
            “Touch me,” he whispered.  “Please, Taline?”  
            “Ezio-”  
            He pushed himself off the bed, away from her, with a sigh.  “It’s okay.  Really.”  He walked over to his rucksack and fished out a bottle of ararat and a simple lead-lined box.  He returned to the bed and handed the box to Taline.  
            “That man’s heart in a box, like I promised you the night we met,” he explained, avoiding her eyes as he uncorked the brandy and raised the bottle to his lips. _It’s not grappa, but it’s strong enough_.  He drank it straight, swallow after burning swallow searing down his throat until he had to stop for air.  He was surprised to see that he’d already drained a fifth of the bottle.  _I need to slow down_.  
            “Is he truly dead, varpet?” Taline asked softly, cradling the box in her hands.  She had the strangest expression on her face; he wasn’t sure why, but it unsettled him.  
            “Yeah, mogliettina.  I killed him for you,” he rasped, throat burning and raw from the liquor.  He eased into bed and reached for her with his free hand.  “Come here.”  
            She set the box aside and nestled against him, warm and solid and real and he loved how she felt.  He drank again deeply from the bottle as she traced her signature across his chest with gentle fingers and her touch felt so good, so _right_.  
            “Thank you.”  She took the bottle from him and set it on the bedside table before kissing him sweetly.  She tasted like violets and ashes and ice water, promises and damnation and salvation.  He wished she would kiss him like this forever.  
  


            Ezio squinted at the anemic winter sunlight.  _Saint Agatha’s sweet tits on a platter, it’s bright.  And loud_.  He winced as his eyes swept the training grounds, searching for Altaïr.  He was _probably_ a little hung over from the brandy he’d drank last night – really, he hadn’t felt all that drunk, at the time, but he was certainly feeling the after effects.  He was glad he’d reported on the contract’s completion to Al Mualim right when he’d gotten back because the thought of facing the Mentor in his current state was wildly unappealing, to say the least.  
            He hadn’t been able keep his hands off of Taline after she’d taken the brandy away from him.  He was impatient and eager, and she was just as luscious as he remembered, even more so, actually.  It had been so frustrating that she wouldn’t let him fully enjoy coming home to her because she was on her period.  While he was disappointed she wasn’t pregnant, he had no reservations about making love to a woman during her monthly bleeding – he liked it even.  It had been the only time Cristina would let him make love to her without any precautionary measures, when she would let him inside her with nothing between them and let him spill his seed within the tight clutches of her body.  It was how he imagined sex would feel every time once they were married.  Taline must have picked up on his feelings – he _might_ have been a _bit_ too drunk to properly hide them – because she gave him a blowjob, without his having to ask, _and_ let him finish in her mouth, which had felt _phenomenal_.  He’d _always_ had to beg Cristina to do _that_.  He loved blowjobs, especially the special ones.  He thought of Lucia and immediately felt guilty.  _No more special blowies now that I’m married.  God, I’m going to miss those_.  He was too embarrassed to even consider asking Taline to do _that_ for him; he’d never be able to live with the way she would look at him if she didn’t understand.  
            He stifled a groan when he spotted Altaïr.  _Why does he always have to be over there?_   He wished his cousin would choose a training ring _other_ than the one furthest away, _just once_.  His legs felt the slightest bit wobbly as he made his way towards Altaïr and he wished he had just stayed in bed.  
            “Altaïr,” he greeted his cousin, squaring his shoulders and forcing a bright smile.  Altaïr could always tell when he was hungover, and he was merciless in his disapproval.   
            “Ezio, welcome home,” Altaïr replied, running his eyes over Ezio’s form.  His brows lowered with the slightest disapproving glower and Ezio mentally steeled himself.  
            “When did you get back?”  
            Ezio felt his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise; Altaïr rarely missed an opportunity to express disapproval of his drinking.  
            “Last night.  I reported the contract’s completion to Al Mualim and then went back to my quarters to see Taline.”  He slouched against the split wood railing and hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was using the fencing to prop himself up.  
            “Good, good,” Altaïr murmured distractedly as something across the training grounds caught his eye.  “I’m happy for you, habibi, congratulations.”  
            “Congratulations, on what,” he asked slowly.  It was a bizarrely inappropriate thing to say about the contract he’d just returned from.  There was a horrible sinking-swelling sensation in his chest coupled with a dawning sense of dread as he waited for Altaïr’s response.  
            Altaïr turned to look at him, brow furrowing in confusion.  “On the baby, of course,” he said slowly, carefully.  “What else?”  
            Ezio convulsively tightened his grip on the fence as one of his knees buckled and lights exploded behind his eyes.  He could feel his cousin radiating concern and alarm at his reaction.  
            “She’s pregnant?  How far along?” he managed to rasp.  
            “Some weeks, I think,” came Altaïr’s cautious reply.  “I thought she would have told you.  She said she wanted to tell you in person.  I assumed she had last night.  She was so excited.”  
            “When did you find out?  
            Altaïr shrugged uncomfortably.  “A few days ago.  She came by to play with the cat.”  
            “What cat?”  Bile tickled the back of his throat; he hoped he didn’t get sick on the training pitch, he’d never live it down.  
            “I told you; Siro got me a cat.”  Altaïr shrugged again.  “He’s a fairly tolerable beast.”  
            “Oh.”  He desperately hoped Altaïr was wrong, that Taline was just having her period.  _But there was so much blood_.  It felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.  
            There was a sharp exclamation of pain from the training ring and he could have sworn he heard Altaïr mutter a sharply bitten off expletive under his breath as he vaulted the fence towards the injured student.  Ezio’s pulse pounded against his temples as he tried to banish the nagging fear that Taline had found out what he’d done, that his actions had somehow caused the loss of yet another desperately wanted baby.  _Monster…Murderer._   
            “Ezio,” Altaïr called, breaking through the white noise of his guilt.  “Ezio.”  
            He dragged his eyes up to meet his cousin’s.  “Yeah?”  
            “I think Saabir’s arm is broken.  Can you escort him to the infirmary?” Altaïr asked as he helped the injured student to his feet.  “There is something else that I must attend to.”  
            The youth’s face was pinched and pale with pain; he looked young, under seventeen, younger than Altaïr usually trained.  Ezio narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  
            “Prego.  Is he underage?” he asked, sliding a pointed look towards his cousin.  Altaïr avoided meeting his eyes.   
            “Yes, Effendi,” Saabir choked out.  “Please, my arm hurts.”  
            “Embrace the pain, it will only make you stronger,” Altaïr murmured distractedly as he clamped a hand on the youth’s shoulder.  
            Ezio bit back an annoyed sigh.  “Shut up, Altaïr.  That’s not helpful.”  He helped Saabir exit the training ring.  “Come on, let’s get you to a medic and have that arm looked at,” he continued, addressing the injured teen, tempering his tone low and soothing.  
            “I’m telling Kadija,” he hissed to Altaïr as he walked past him.  
            “You do that,” Altaïr replied before seeming to almost vanish before his eyes.  
            _Cazzo, he’s good_ , Ezio marveled with an only slightly jealous huff before shepherding the younger fidā'ī to the infirmary.  
  


            Ezio casually wandered away as a medic examined Saabir’s injured arm; it was obviously broken, he could tell from the rate of swelling and tenderness.  He wanted to find one of the medics Taline would have seen, get some answers before he confronted his wife.  
            Alamūt’s infirmary was a complicated honeycomb of intersecting rooms and domed open spaces, its ceilings covered with muqarnas enchanted to mirror the sky outside.  He tried to remember the infirmary’s layout, choosing the hallways he’d never taken before.  He finally asked a young nurse for directions.  She’d drawn the edge of her headscarf across her face when she replied, self-conscious of his attention as she led him to the women’s ward and pointed to a medic.  He thanked her, made sure his tone was gentle and his words respectful, before flagging down the medic she had indicated.  
            “Excuse me,” he said with one of his more charming smiles, the one that almost always got him exactly what he wanted.  “I believe my wife may have come for treatment in the last few days or so?  Her name is Taline, Taline Auditore.  She’s just a slip of a thing, dark hair, green eyes, a little on the shy side?”  
            The medic slid a calculating look over him.  “You’re her husband then?  How’d a girl like that land a man like you?”  
            He felt his smile sharpen slightly.  “Divine intervention.”  He let her muse over that for a moment before continuing his inquiry.  “She said she’d been unwell while I was away,” he prompted with another devastating smile.  
            “Luckily for you, I was curious and read her file, and I’ll tell you what was in it since you’re her husband.  She came in, day before yesterday; stayed overnight.  Miscarriage,” the medic confirmed, a faint glimmer of malice in her otherwise opaque eyes.  “I’m Risha, by the way.”  
            “How-” he took a quick, steadying breath “-how far along was she?”  
            “About six weeks, according to the calculations Yusriyah entered in her chart.”  Risha shrugged, remarkably unconcerned with Taline’s privacy, as she toyed with the fringe of her headscarf.  “Was it yours?”  
            He froze, blinking slowly as his blood roared in his ears.  It was all too much for him to process, a blaring, blinding blur of emotional white noise.  He shut down, shut it out, like he would any unwelcome distraction on a contract, and focused on the last thing the medic had said.  _Was it yours?_   His lips felt numb with sudden icy rage.  “Excuse me?” he finally managed to ask, whisper soft and venomous.  
            “Was it your child, Effendi,” she repeated uncomfortably, seeming to suddenly become aware of his tension at the question.  “It’s just, husbands don’t ask these sorts of questions, unless something is amiss.  Usually when paternity is uncertain.”  
            “My wife is above reproach,” he whispered, stepping forward to invade the medic’s personal space menacingly.  He wanted to sink his blade into her side, see her blood splattered across the floor.  “I will not tolerate her being slandered.”  
            Risha’s eyes were darting everywhere but him, wide and frightened and he took savage satisfaction in repaying her betrayal of Taline’s trust.  He leaned even closer.  
            “If there’s even a hint of gossip regarding my wife’s fidelity, or my ability to sire children with her, I’ll _know_ it came from you,” he whispered in her ear, tone intentionally chillingly pleasant.  She shivered and quickly backed away.  
            “Ezio!” someone called, the sound of footsteps drawing closer.  He tipped his chin towards Risha in a shallow nod, a pleasant, empty smile firmly plastered in place before he turned from her.  
            “Asad?” he could feel his control slipping at the sight of his friend’s expression of friendly concern.  “I have to go.  I have to, I need…”  He shook his head, impatiently trying to clear away the sudden rising hum of panic.  “I have to go.”  He lunged towards the door.  _Taline_.    
            Asad beat him to the door, blocked it with his body.  “What are you doing here, did you get lost?”  
            “I have to go,” he repeated, more forcefully.  “Move, or I’ll make you move.”  
            “Easy, Effendi,” Asad soothed, catching hold of his upper arms.  He tried to shrug him off, but the medic tightened his grip.  “Risha’s going to had you a phial and you’re going to drink it down, yes?” Asad said with his _stern doctor look_ , the one he used when anything but total obedience would have unpleasant consequences.  “We don’t want to have to do anything the hard way now, right?”  
            Risha was suddenly standing beside him, phial in hand.  
            “What is it?” he asked, still trying to shrug off Asad’s hands, push past him to the door – _need to get to Taline_ – but Asad tightened his grip.  
            “Something to take the edge off, so you can tell me why you’re so upset,” Asad explained patiently, tone low and soothing.  
            Ezio could feel the subtly mounting pressure of a full body binding spell being silently cast.  He relented and took the potion in one swift swallow, figuring it would be easier to escape the infirmary while drugged than petrified and tied to a bed.  It hit him immediately, like a wall of water, and he had just enough time to curse his complacency before the heaviness of tranquility set in.  _Taline_.  
            “Okay,” Asad said with a subtle nod to Risha as he slowly released his grip on Ezio.  “Let’s start our conversation over.  What are you doing here, E-zo?”  
            Ezio shrugged and briefly wondered if the gesture had dislodged his head from his shoulders.  “I escorted a student with a broken arm.  Saved him from Altaïr’s _tender mercies_.”  
            Asad snorted.  “Lucky boy.  Join me for a cup of coffee, you look like you could use it,” he added with a careless wave of his hand.  
            Ezio numbly followed him, casting a final warning look over his shoulder at Risha.  “I don’t want that woman treating Taline; she’s a spiteful creature.”  
            “Risha’s got a bit of a forked tongue, but there’s no real harm in her,” Asad replied with a negligent shrug.  “She’s an incorrigible gossip, though.”  
            “I’ll bet she’s the one who shamed Taline when she came for advice and started all those cruel rumors then,” he muttered.  “She was too eager to share Taline’s private information.”  
            “Checking up on your wife already, E-zo?  That’s what brought you to the women’s’ medics?” Asad asked with a rueful shake of his head.  “Have you tried talking to her?  You just might be pleasantly surprised, you know.”  
            “She would only say that she’d been ill; she didn’t want to tell me what really happened,” he grumbled as he followed Asad into his office.  “I figured out something was wrong when our, _relations_ , went especially poorly.”  He grimaced as he took the seat Asad indicated in one of the overstuffed armchairs.  
            Asad winced sympathetically as he handed him a cup of strong black coffee.  “What happened?”  
            “That woman told me Taline miscarried the day before yesterday.”  He drew a shaky breath, nerves jangling like a drawer full of cutlery, despite the calming draught he’d been given.  “Why would that happen?”  
            “It’s not actually uncommon.  Most miscarriages occur before the woman even knows she’s pregnant,” Asad replied as he settled into the other armchair with his coffee.  He watched Ezio over the rim of his cup as he took a deep drink.  “Why were you threatening Risha?”  
            “What makes you think I was threatening her?” he parried, widening his eyes innocently.  
            Asad snorted.  “Because I’ve known you for years.  And you weren’t being very subtle.”  
            “That woman had the nerve to ask if the child was mine,” he replied with a wave of fresh irritation and anger.  “Of course it was mine.  I’m her husband, who else’s would it have been?  Taline would never, not with anyone but me.  She’s not like that.  That night – when we met – we could have, but we didn’t.  We waited until we were married.”  
            “An _epic_ ten hour wait,” Asad commented dryly.  
            “We still waited,” he insisted.  “And _mio dio,_ it was torture, but me being her husband first _mattered_ to her.”  
            “Ezio,” Asad hesitated, studying his coffee.  “You understand that you’ll have to wait a while before resuming relations with your wife, right?  She needs time to heal.”  
            His anger deflated at the gentle reminder like a pricked balloon and he tried to swallow down the lump in his throat at the memory of Taline huddled up and crying in the bathtub.  “How long?”  
            “She’ll have to check with one of the women’s medics, but I think the recommendation is two or three months or so –   
            “Two months?” Ezio repeated, aghast.  “But we want to start a family, the sooner the better.  How am I supposed to sleep next to my wife and abstain for that long?  I’m a _man_ , after all, and I get so allupato.”  
            “At the very least you need to wait until she stops bleeding,” Asad snapped.  “You’ll hurt her.  She could get a serious infection, she could _die_.  She’s a _person_ , Ezio, not a baby maker.  And maybe look into making her happy.  That poor girl has been miserable since you left.”  
            Ezio sagged against the back of the chair; having a good marriage was turning out to be more complicated and difficult that he’d originally thought.  
            “What do you mean by _miserable_?” he asked hesitantly.  
            Asad snorted disbelievingly.  “She can’t leave the fortress unattended, and there wasn’t anyone available – or willing – to go with her so she’s been trapped within these walls since before you left.  Everyone avoids her; she was overjoyed when I joined her for dinner last week, and we both know I’m not a sought after dining companion.  She’s _obviously_ lonely, Ezio.”  
            “I thought, Mari said,” he stammered.  “She promised to look out for Taline, while I was away.  Introduce her to people, invite her along to things.  Help her _fit in_.”  
            “Altaïr has been doing more of that than your sister,” Asad snorted.  “And you know how good _he_ is with people.”  
            Ezio groaned and hid his face with his free hand.  Asad – like most people brave enough to venture an opinion to him – didn’t think much of Altaïr’s social skills.  Privately, he could admit to himself that Altaïr could be awkward to interface with, that he had trouble with tact and that his generally blunted affect could be rather unsettling.  Admitting that to other people was an entirely different matter, however.  
            “Cut him some slack, okay Asad?  He’s really not that bad once you get to know him,” he mumbled through his fingers.  Sometimes, he got really tired of constantly having to defend his cousin.  
            “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Asad retorted and drew his blade to refill his coffee.  “She seems to really like Altaïr’s cat, maybe you should look into getting her a pet.”  
            “Yeah, maybe,” he mumbled.  
            It hadn’t occurred to him that Taline might like a pet; he’d assumed that she’d quickly become pregnant and be kept busy with preparing for and raising their children.  He hadn’t liked how spaced out he and his siblings had been, he and Fredo had been lucky to have cousins close to their ages to play with – Fredo, Mal and Kadija, him and Altaïr.  He wanted that closeness for his own children, especially since it looked like he’d be the only one having any in the foreseeable future.  
            “She also might like being taken to the bāzār in the village,” Asad suggested.  “Women seem to like going shopping.”  
            Ezio quirked his lips in an approximation of a smile.  “Why do you think I took so many contracts and waited so long to marry?  Wives are an expensive undertaking.”  
            “Which is why I’m still a bachelor,” Asad snorted.  
            “Oh, is that the reason?” Ezio asked as he stood and placed his empty cup on the tray.  “I thought it was because you work too much, paisà.”  
            “That too.”  
            Ezio stretched and glanced towards the door.  The coffee had helped him shake off some of the effect of the calming draught, but his head still felt fuzzy and his body ached.  He really needed a nap and a hot bath, preferably before Taline finished teaching for the day.   
            “I’ve got to take care of some things,” he said, avoiding eye contact.  With the artificial calm created by the potion he’d been given, he could see that rushing straight to Taline would have been a mistake, that making a scene would only make things harder for his wife within the walls of Alamūt, and that this was going to be a conversation best had quietly, in private.  
            “Things?” Asad pressed, tone hardening with suspicion.  
            “Yeah, things,” he replied defensively.  “Like napping and bathing before Taline gets home.  And, you know, figuring out how to tell that her I know about what happened, with, with the baby-”  His throat constricted and he swallowed unsteadily.  
            “It’ll be okay, Ezio.”  His friend’s expression softened with sympathy.  “Most couples go on to have as many children as they want after a miscarriage.  It doesn’t mean anything is wrong.  You’re both young and healthy, and there isn’t any reason for you to be worried.”  
            “Thanks for the coffee,” he mumbled.  He managed to manufacture an only slightly off-kilter smile before he left Asad’s office, closing the door softly behind himself.

 


	12. Maria: discovered

            Mari slowly rolled her weight from one hip to the other, stretching her muscles and keeping herself limber for her upcoming turn in the sparring ring, as she watched Hiro furtively watching her out of the corner of her eye and bit back a smile.  It was fun to flirt with Hiro, but it was getting harder and harder to keep their developing relationship secret.  Right on cue, the back of her neck prickled with the unsettling feeling she got when Altaïr crept up on her.  Her eyes narrowed as she scanned her surroundings, but she still jolted in surprise when he appeared at her side, seeming to have materialized out of thin air.  
            “That _Disciple_ has been watching you since he arrived several weeks ago,” he observed, tone crisp with disapproval.  “He isn’t bothering you, is he Maria?  Do I need to intervene?”  
            “Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed, trying to move her lips as little as possible; far too many of their fellow fidā'ī could read lips and she had enough gossip circulating about her already.  “I’m perfectly capable of handing him myself.”  
            “I will not tolerate anyone forcing their attentions on a member of my family,” he replied with chilling politeness.  “Or otherwise making them uncomfortable.  He’s training under Ibrahim, I believe?”  
            “I said I don’t need your intervention,” she snapped in frustration.  It really shouldn’t have still surprised her at this point how acutely observant Altaïr was in some ways while remaining painfully oblivious in others.  _Like that I might not mind Hiro’s attention.  How am I ever going to meet anyone with him and Ezio glaring down any potential suitors like a pair of gargoyles?  No wonder Mother kept her relationship with Father a secret and then eloped_ , she thought with a sharp spike of annoyance.  
            Altaïr leveled a decidedly frosty look towards the young Croat and folded his arms across his chest.  “I’ll have his training schedule altered so that he is no longer able to bother you; Ibrahim will understand.”  
            “Don’t!  He’s taking me dancing again this Thursday,” she told him in a furious whisper, twisting her fingers in the fabric of his sleeve and drawing his strange, light eyes to hers with a sharp tug.  
            Altaïr’s eyes snapped between her and Hiro as his lips thinned with disapproval.  “Again?”  
            “I don’t have to-” she started.  
            “Come,” he interrupted her brusquely, turning on his heel and striding away without so much as a backward glance to confirm that she would follow.  She gritted her teeth and stalked after him, acutely aware of the curious glances that followed them.  _God, he’s such a monster_.  Hiro was openly watching her, expression tight with worry; she spared a quick smile to ease his concerns.  
            Altaïr led her deep into the Garden, down twisting unfamiliar paths until they reached a clearing with a tall babbling water feature.  She barely had time to catch her breath and prepare her defenses before his opening salvo.   
            “How long have you been sneaking out with him?” he demanded.  
            “I haven’t been _sneaking_ out!” she retorted.  “Just because I don’t go out of my way to keep you appraised of my every movement-”  
            “Have you told your brother about your new beau?” Altaïr cut across her sharply.  
            She blushed.  “No, you know how-”  
            “You don’t sit together at meals,” he added, folding his arms across his chest.  
            “I don’t see-”  
            “In fact, you seem to go out of your way to avoid being seen together.  Why is that, I wonder, if you’re not sneaking out with him?” he asked brutally.  
            “I wanted to avoid this!” she snapped, gesticulating angrily.  “My god, you’re such a nightmare.  You and Ezio and Mother and, and, just all of you.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting a semi-normal relationship – which I’ll never get to have if you all know I’m seeing anyone.”  
            “So, are you ashamed of him, or is he ashamed to be seen with you?” Altaïr asked after a carefully calculated pause.  
            “Neither!” she snapped.  “I’m ashamed of you!”  She gulped down a deep breath and then another, dangerously close to saying something unforgivable.  Altaïr’s expression hardened.  
            “Be ashamed then, but for once in your life listen: Do not begin a love affair lightly.  You will be the one who pays the most – bearing a child out of wedlock will be the end of your career as fidā'ī.  You’ll be forced to marry and probably retired-”  
            “That’s not what happened with your mother, she bore you, never named your sire, and rose to Master,” Mari retorted.  “How am I any different than Aaliyah?”  
            “Your own mother was not treated like Aaliyah,” he bit out stonily.  “Al Mualim is not our Grandfather Cyrus, and you, you are nothing like _her_.  _Nothing_!”  
            She closed her eyes and took a slow breath.  She didn’t know why she kept doing that – bringing up his mother – when it so obviously bothered Altaïr every time she did.  Sometimes he got a little funny when Aaliyah came up, gaze distant and muscles tense, but mostly he seemed to get angry.  _I really should stop provoking him_.  
            “I’ll be careful, I promise,” she whispered.  She felt, rather than saw, him stiffen in surprise that she was backing down.  “His name is Hiro, just in case you were curious.  And I like him.  I like him a lot.”  She opened her eyes and watched him watch her.  
            “Your hair looks nice today,” he finally said, breaking the sprawling silence.  
            “What?”  
            “Your hair-” he jabbed his chin at the general vicinity of her head “-it looks… less frizzy than it usually does.”  
            “My hair looks _less frizzy_ than it _usually_ does?” she repeated slowly, eyes narrowing.  
            “Yes?”  She could see him tensing up again.  
            “You-you pull me out of training – after giving me the silent treatment for the past _two weeks_ – to tell me not to be a _slut_ because you’ve _finally_ figured out that I _might_ have found a boyfriend, and then tell me my hair looks nice because it’s less frizzy than usual?” she hissed.  
            His eyes narrowed as he clenched his teeth, but he remained, stubbornly, silent.  
            “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?  What _planet_ are you are you even _from_ that you think that’s an okay thing to say?  Was that supposed to be an apology?  Are you _practicing_ being nice or something?” she screeched, flinging her hands out in a frustrated and furious gesture.  
            He averted his face as though she had struck him.  “Excuse me,” he muttered as he turned to leave.  
            _It was_.  She felt terrible as soon as the realization sank in.  _He was trying to be nice_.  
            “Altaïr-”  She lunged after him and caught hold of his hand.  
            “Don’t!” he snapped as he spun to face her and wrenched his hand from her grasp.  “Don’t touch me!”  His blade was already drawn.  
            _My god he’s fast_ , she marveled as she raised her hands and took a step back.  She heard the slink of the blade retracting back into its sheath.  Their jagged breathing was the only sound for the long moment they studied each other.  It hurt that he still wouldn’t tolerate even the briefest physical contact from her.  She’d thought after training together for two years he’d soften towards her somewhat in that regard, at least; she was wrong.  
            “I’m sorry.”  She hated to be the one who said it, but it needed to be said and she knew he wouldn’t.  
            “You’re not.”  
            She was not entirely successful in swallowing her frustration.  _Why is he always so difficult?  
_             “You don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.”  
            “No,” he conceded.  “But do I know that you’re rarely – if ever – actually sorry for anything you say to me.”  
            She blinked, surprised that he thought that of her.  “That’s not true.”  
            “Isn’t it?”  He shifted his weight, subtly sliding a half step away from her so she’d have to step forward to try to catch hold of him again, giving him more time to evade being touched; she’d trained enough with him to recognize his tactical maneuvering.  
            “No, it’s not.”  She checked the impulse to step towards him; he’d only back away.  
            “No?”  He moved another half step away from her.  
            “No,” she repeated, finally taking a step towards him, closing the space he’d carefully created.  
            He watched her warily and she thought about the exaggerated care her mother always took to not surprise him with her touch, the way she kept both of her hands in his sight and moved slowly, like she was approaching a half-tame animal.  _Repressed is a rather mild term for what’s wrong with him_ , Cesare had said.  
            “I don’t always think as carefully as I should before I speak, and I _am_ genuinely sorry when I say things that hurt you-” she said slowly, carefully, watching him closely but trying not to be obvious about it.  
            “Why would I be hurt by anything you say?  Your words carry no weight, they are nothing but air,” he retorted.   
            _No, of course not_ , she thought with a flash of irritation before she remembered that Altaïr rarely acknowledged that he felt anything – happiness, grief, cold or hunger.  She sighed.  
            “Altaïr, _please_ try not to be difficult.  I don’t want to fight with you, not about this, please?”  She lifted her hands in a supplicating gesture before slowly reaching over to touch his forearm, giving him every opportunity to flinch away.  He considered it – she could tell – but he allowed the contact, even though he turned away slightly, tipping his chin to further obscure his expression in the shadow of his hood.  
            “His name is Hiro?”  
            She smiled up at him.  It wasn’t much of a concession, but it was more than she expected.  
            “Yes.  He’s from Slunj, Croatia.”  
            “And you like him?”  
            “Yeah, I do.  I think I might like him a lot.”  
            Altaïr was silent for a long moment, the muscles of his arm tension tight under her fingers.  She wished she had some indication what he was thinking.  
            “I will not lie for you if I am asked about this, habibti.”  
            She felt her knees actually wobble as she sighed in relief.  “Yes, of course.  Thank you, Altaïr.”  
            “I want you to be happy and safe.  And if he hurts you, I’ll send him to Gēhannā,” he growled, hand snaking up inside her hood to grip the base of her skull.  
            _Gēhannā.  He referred to Gēhannā_ , she thought as her stomach dropped.  
            He pressed a hard, hasty kiss to her forehead before he released her and quickly strode away, almost seeming to vanish into thin air.  Altaïr had pronounced Gēhannā the same way Cesare did, used the same odd inflection.  _He must have learned it from Sirocco.  But when?_   She pulled her hood back up with shaking hands as she hurried after Altaïr.  _I need to ask him what Gēhannā means to him, where and when he learned about it._   She was beginning to suspect Altaïr and Sirocco’s relationship was more complicated than she had ever even considered.  
            “Mari!”  
            She glanced up sharply and almost stumbled as Hiro clasped her to his chest with an inarticulate murmur of relief.  
            “Hiro?”  
            “-was so worried. – he looked so angry – damn near incinerated me with that glare – so afraid he might have hurt you – honor killing, or something-”  
            “Hiro, what are you talking about?” she asked with a bewildered frown.  
            “Altaïr Effendi, of course,” Hiro replied, forehead creasing in consternation.  “You wanted to keep us a secret from your family.  I thought you feared for your safety or something, if they found out, and he clearly had just figured out, about us-” he cradled his hand against her cheek and kissed her tenderly “-and I couldn’t just _stand there_ , pretending nothing was wrong.  I had to come and make sure you were okay, protect you.”  He kissed her again, more insistently.  
            “Oh, Hiro,” she gasped, dragging her lips from his.  _God, he’s great to kiss_.  “Altaïr would never, he was worried about failing to protect me from _you_.”  
            “What?  Why?  Why would he think that of me?”  
            _Because he didn’t know I was the one who wanted to keep our relationship secret_ , she thought guiltily, but she knew better than to tell that to Hiro.  
            “Altaïr thinks the worst of people until proven otherwise,” she explained carefully, smoothing her hands up his chest and over his shoulders.  “He’s really protective.  I don’t think it’s occurred to him that I’m not a little girl anymore.”  
            “No, not a little girl,” Hiro agreed softly.  “But I can understand wanting to protect you.”  
            She looked away to hide her blush.  “Hiro… Do you-” She bit her lip nervously, scarcely believing she would dare to be so forward.  _Either of us could die on our next contract_.  “D’you have to head right back?  To training.  I mean, maybe you could stay with me, here in the Garden, a bit – if Ibrahim Effendi won’t mind, that is.”  
            Hiro smiled.  “I doubt he’s even noticed I slipped away.”  He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her closer.  “What did you have in mind, jitterbug?”  
            She returned his smile as she took a step back, turning to lead him deeper into the Garden.  “Let’s find a bench or somewhere to sit and enjoy the sunshine while it lasts; feels like it’s going to snow again soon.”  
            “Sure thing,” Hiro replied, easily falling into step beside her.  “Will you sit with me at dinner tonight?  We can meet a few of each other’s friends.”  
            “Hiro, I don’t think-” she hesitated, trying to decide the best way to express her reservations.  She knew Cesare hadn’t believed her when she told him things weren’t serious between her and Hiro, and bringing their relationship out in the open would only make him a potential target of the incubus’ jealousy or Sirocco’s wrath.  
            “Why not?” he demanded.  “It’s not exactly a secret anymore now that your cousin knows.  Why can’t we be open about being together?”  
            “But Ezio doesn’t know,” she said quickly, grasping at the first somewhat legitimate sounding excuse she could come up with.  “He’ll take it badly if he hears it from someone else first, and I don’t want to drop that on him while he’s on a contract.”  
            “I’m sure your cousin will tell him; he seemed pretty angry,” he retorted.  
            _Angry?  You’ve got to be joking – that was just annoyed – angry looks a whole lot worse and even that’s nothing compared to how Ezio will react_ , she thought with a barely suppressed shiver.  
            “Lower your voice, please,” she hissed, anxiously glancing over her shoulder.  She was fairly sure Altaïr was long gone, but she wasn’t _completely_ sure, and he wouldn’t hesitate to get involved if he overheard them arguing; Altaïr’s _assistance_ would have disastrous consequences on her relationship.   
            “What is it with you and secrecy, Mari?” he demanded.  “Have you got a line on another fellow?  Is there someone else?”  
            She gaped at him in slack-jawed disbelief until she found her voice.  “You can’t be serious!  Where would I find the time to see someone else?  I spend all my free time with you!  And when I’m not with you, you know exactly where I am and what I’m doing.  Really, Hiro, how could you even think that?”  
            He blinked slowly as the silence lengthened and then looked away.  “I know,” he groaned.  “I’m sorry.  I just keep hearing all these rumors-”  
            “What rumors?” she demanded, eyes narrowing in suspicion.  
            He had the decency to look uncomfortable.  “There’s a rumor, about a man visiting your room, the other night.  People heard you talking to him, and … other noises.”  
            She sucked her breath sharply through her teeth.  _Damn you, Cesare Maraas!  Damn you straight to the inner circles of hell where you belong!  
_             “And you believe them,” she stated, heavily gilding her tone with icy disdain.  
            “Not really-”  Now he looked _really_ uncomfortable.  
            “Not really,” she repeated flatly and took a step back from him.  
            “You’re so secretive Mari, what am I supposed to think?”  
            “Did it ever occur to you to – I don’t know – ask me?” she snapped.  He dropped his eyes, and she sighed in exasperation.  “I’m a-” all at once her courage left her and she swallowed unsteadily.  “I’m a virgin,” she whispered, lips numb and cheeks burning hot.  “And not just a _technical_ virgin, an actual one, so how does that square with supposedly having some man in my room at night?”  
            “Those two things aren’t necessarily incompatible,” he replied slowly.  “Look, if there’s nothing for me to be jealous of, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”  
            She bit the inside of her lip and avoided his eyes.  “I didn’t want to drag you into this – it’s messy and complicated… you know, family stuff.”  
            “Family stuff?” Hiro repeated incredulously.  “Really, Mari?”  
            “Yes.”  _In various, round about ways_.  
            He sighed.  “Of course it is.  That’s such a terrible lie, it must be true.”  He reached up and rubbed his thumb along the crest of her cheek.  “It’s not about … an arranged marriage, or something like that, is it?”  
            She rolled her eyes.  “My family’s not _that_ traditional,” she replied, uncomfortable with how close his shot in the dark was to her _alleged_ situation with Cesare.  
            “So what is it then?”  
            “You can’t help me with this-” she sighed and stepped back from him slowly.  
            “How can you say that when you won’t even tell me what’s going on?” he demanded, catching hold of her upper arms and drawing her closer.  “Why do you keep pushing me away?”  
            “Because I’m not safe!” she burst out.  The space she’d maintained between them was gone and her carefully constructed denials and defenses felt flimsy and she couldn’t hear herself think over the white noise of her body humming from his proximity.  “People die all around me, Hiro.  My cousin was _sold_ to a sex demon by his own mother and I’m being stalked by another.”  
            His brow creased in concern.  “You’re not making any sense.”  
            “No,” she agreed.  “None of it makes any sense, it all sounds so crazy, and sometimes I wonder if it’s driving me mad.”  She slid her hands up his sides, beneath his shirt, stroking hot bare skin.  His breath caught.  He drew her closer, one hand slithering down to knead her bottom while the other rubbed her lower back, thumb inserted into the waistband of her training şalvar to stroke her bare skin.  Heat bloomed between her thighs and high across her cheeks.  
            _Where does he kiss you, Maria?  How far do you let it go?  
_             “Mari,” he whispered, lowering his lips to hers.  
            Their kisses were sloppy and desperate, bumping noses and clanking teeth.  She dug her nails into his back, scratching him, surely raising red wheals on his pale skin.  He gripped her tightly, hard enough to leave his fingerprints bruised onto her skin.  
            _I don’t belong to you, Cesare Maraas_.  
            “Take me somewhere,” she panted.  “Somewhere warm and private.  Please?”  
            “Yes, _oh god,_ yes,” he groaned, fumbling for her hand and lacing their fingers together.  They continued kissing, bodies intertwined like serpents.  
            “Mari?” someone said, a feminine voice high and questioning.  
            She dragged her lips from Hiro’s with a frustrated groan and turned to tell the interloper off.  The rude dismissal she’d prepared died on her lips the moment she recognized her sister-in-law.  
            “Taline?” she bleated guiltily in surprise.  “What are you doing here?”  
            “I often walk in the Garden between classes,” Taline replied, studying Hiro with obvious interest.  “I think the more appropriate questions are what are you doing here and who is this?”  
            She opened her mouth to respond but Hiro beat her to it.  
            “Hiro Vuković, at your service,” he said, clicking his heels.  “And you are, Mari’s sister?”  
            “Sister-in-law,” she quickly corrected him with a warning squeeze of their intertwined fingers.  “Taline’s the cabaret dancer my brother eloped with.  Isn’t that right?” she cooed, burying her irritation and hostility beneath an artificially sweet veneer.  
            “I am her brother’s wife,” Taline acknowledged carefully.  “We were properly wed in the manner of your Order.”  
            “Yes, of course,” Hiro replied, casting a quick questioning glance at Mari.  “I’ve heard so much about you.”  
            “But I have heard nothing about you,” Taline replied.  “You are Mari’s… lover?”  Her smile was guileless.  
            “We were actually just leaving-” Mari said, trying to unobtrusively nudge Hiro.  
            “Yes, of course.  I’ll tell Ezio that you’re both coming to dinner tomorrow?” Taline inquired sweetly.  
            “He’ll be back tomorrow?” Mari snapped.  “He hasn’t told me he’d be back so soon.”  
            “He returned last night.”  
            She blinked slowly in consternation.  There seemed to be no way around the very meeting she had been desperately trying to delay.  She noticed the careful way Taline was holding herself, the way she gingerly shifted her weight.  She’d heard her mother’s whores commiserating with each other after difficult clients many times over the years.  The client none of them relished was a male Assassin freshly returned from a contract – they were rough, insatiable, demanding – they hard-used the whores and then expected sweetness and smiles afterwards.  She loved her brother dearly, but he was still a man, and a Master Assassin; she harbored no illusions that he behaved any differently and unwillingly felt a sudden stab of sympathy for her sister-in-law.  Ezio had just returned from a very long contract.  
            “I am honored by your invitation, Khanum, and look forward to dining with you and your husband,” Hiro said politely.  
            _Well done_ , she thought approvingly.  Buttering up her sister-in-law was a clever move; Ezio was bound to appreciate any deference and courtesy shown to his entirely unsuitable wife.  
            “Then it’s settled,” Taline replied with another smile at Hiro; she didn’t look to Mari for agreement.  
            “Yes, quite,” she agreed irritably.  “Would you excuse us, Hiro?  We need to discuss some family matters.  I’ll see you at dinner?”  
            “Yes, of course,” he quickly agreed.  “I’ll wait for you.”  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, the one facing Taline, giving her the perfect opportunity to unobtrusively whisper in his ear.  She didn’t hesitate to make use of it.  
            “We’ll talk after dinner, in your room,” she whispered.  The slight catch in his breath was the only thing that might have given them away.  
            _I don’t belong to you, Cesare Maraas_.  
            She watched him walk away with irritation and longing.  
            “I don’t have much time.  What family matters did you wish to discuss?” Taline asked as she carefully folded her hands together.  The movement momentarily exposed a sliver of bare skin between the edge of her coat sleeve and top of her glove and Mari glimpsed the mottled dark colors of a fresh bruise.  
            “What happened to your wrist?” she asked and watched for her sister-in-law’s reaction to the bluntness of her question.  
            “Excuse me?”  
            “Where did that bruise come from?” she pressed.  
            Taline blanched.  “I, I hit it against the doorknob on the bathroom door this morning.  I was trying not to wake Ezio so I didn’t light the lamps and stumbled in the dark.”  
            Taline was obviously lying.  _It’s not even a particularly good lie_.  Her stomach turned at the implication that her brother had intentionally inflicted that bruise; she doubted her sister-in-law would have tried to lie about it if it had been an accident.  
            “I’m sure.”  
            Taline’s mouth twisted and she quickly looked away.  “I have to go.  I don’t want to be late to class.”  
            Mari quickly fell in step beside her when Taline started to walk away.  
            “Look, can you not say anything?  About Hiro, I mean.  Ezio should hear about him from me,” she said quickly.  
            “Will you be telling him today, then?” Taline asked, avoiding looking at her.  
            “Maybe.”  Mari studied her from the corner of her eye as they walked.  “What’d you do to deserve that bruise?  Did beating you make him feel any better?” she asked as they neared Taline’s destination.  
            “Tam bir surtuksun!” Taline bit out before darting into the classroom.  
            “What the hell does that mean?” Mari snapped after her.  _Nothing sisterly, I’ll bet_.  
            “I think she called you a bitch,” one of Taline’s students ventured as they slid past her towards the classroom.  “But I can’t say for sure.”  
            “Thanks,” she muttered and then sighed.  _That could have gone better.  
  
_

            “I’m never going to get a proper introduction to your brother’s little Cathari wife from you, am I?” Seamus sighed.  
            Mari’s eyes narrowed.  “I tell you all about everything that’s happened, and _that’s_ your response, Shay?  Is academia _really_ the only thing you care about?”  
            “That’s an unfair question and you know it,” he sniffed before turning and meticulously tidying the various stacks of parchment on his desk.  “I care about a great deal about many things outside of my work.”  
            “Good to know.  Am I on that list?” she grumbled, slouching lower in the uncomfortable wooden chair Seamus had offered her and listlessly shoving at the leg of his desk with the toe of her boot.  
            “Of course you are.  Stop that.”  
            She sighed.  “Hiro wants us to start sitting together at meals and meeting each other’s friends.”  
            “That’s typically what people in relationships do, you know,” he replied wryly.  
            “I _know_ that!” she snapped.  “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to be so, you know, _open_ about it.”  
            Seamus sighed and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an impatient jab of his forefinger.  “Look, I’m telling you this as your friend: Stop being stupid and don’t fuck this up.”  
            “Excuse me?” she spat and sat up straighter; it really was a _horribly_ uncomfortable chair.  “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”  
            “Hiro seems like a nice enough sort of fellow.  Really decent, actually.  For a fidā'ī,” Seamus replied, pointedly ignoring the rude noise she made at that last comment.  “And he’s been a pretty good sport about you being all secretive and weird – so far – but no one likes feeling like they’re someone’s _dirty little secret_ , now do they?”  
            “It’s not like that,” she protested.  “You know what’s going on – with Cesare and the Maraas – what gives me any right to involve him in all of that mess?  What if something happens?”  
            “I don’t know about right, but you already made the decision to _involve_ him when you two started going out,” he retorted.  “It’s a little late for all this hand-wringing now, rather like shutting the barn door after the horse has already fled – in a manner of speaking.”  
            She rolled her eyes.  “I’m trying to be responsible.”  
            “And what you’re actually doing is sabotaging a potentially really good relationship because you don’t want to tell your family that you’re seeing someone,” he retorted.  
            “Have you asked Zahra out yet?” she asked abruptly.  Seamus meant well, but she was tired of being lectured.  
            “No, not yet,” he replied evasively and started shuffling through the stacks of parchment on his desk.  
            “What are you waiting for?  A sign from above?”  
            “No, nothing so grand as that.  Just, you know, the right time.”  
            “And when would that be?” she inquired sweetly.  “After she’s started seeing someone else so you can wallow in self-pity, bemoaning that you missed your chance?”  
            “That, right there, is the reason you have so few friends,” he snapped, shoving his glasses back up his nose as a blotchy flush crept up his neck.  “God, you’ve got a poisoned tongue sometimes.”  
            “Yeah, well,” she shrugged defensively.  “What’s your excuse then?”  
            “My excuse for what?”  
            “Not having any friends.”  
            Seamus thumped the stack of parchment he had just picked up back down on his desk with more force than strictly necessary.  “I have friends.  I have all the friends I need.  My work keeps me very busy, you know.”  
            “Uh-huh, sure.  I believe you, I really, really do,” she hummed, slouching back down in her chair.  She could tell she was being a bit awful to him; she wasn’t sure why and she couldn’t really seem stop herself either.  Maybe she wasn’t trying hard enough.  
            “I’m very well-respected amongst my colleagues, you know,” he blustered.  
            “That’s not _really_ the same thing.”  She made a point of nonchalantly studying her nails.  Seamus sighed and his eyes narrowed as he leveled a contemplative look at her.  Her skin itched under his scrutiny and it took herculean effort to keep herself from scratching self-consciously.  
            “Why are you lashing out at me?  Is it because you got caught acting like a slattern with your secret boyfriend?”  
            “A what?  I don’t even know what that means.”  Her conscience – in the very voice of her mother – was busy berating her for picking a fight with Seamus; she did her best to ignore it.  
            “A _slattern_ ,” he repeated, enunciating the word with very deliberate care.  “It means just what you think it does.  Use your imagination.”  
            She clenched her teeth and dropped her gaze to glare at the floor.  The tile next to her foot was chipped at the top right edge.  While she wanted to fume with righteous indignation, part of her acknowledged that her recent behavior had earned a bit of name calling from Seamus.  It still rankled though.  
            “First Altaïr, and now you.  Everybody’s calling me a slut today.  Maybe I should go talk to Ezio so I can be three for three.”  
            Seamus flashed her a chagrined grimace.  “He’s your brother, surely-”  
            “He’s not that progressive,” she replied grimly.  _To put it mildly.  God, he’s positively going to have kittens if Taline tells him what she saw in the Garden_.  She hoped her sister-in-law’s instincts towards self-preservation were stronger than her desire to ingratiate herself to her new husband – for all of their sakes; after he was finished with her and Taline, Hiro wouldn’t stand a chance if Ezio ambushed him on the training grounds.   
            “Yeah, well.  I should have guessed that anyone who beats their wife wouldn’t be,” he replied with a disapproving sniff.  
            “ _Jesus_ , Shay!  It was _one_ bruise, on her wrist.  I hardly think that’s definitive proof my brother beats his wife,” she protested.  _I shouldn’t have told him about that bruise, he’s never going to let it go_.  She briefly felt guilty for flippantly asking Taline what she’d done to deserve it.  She’d judiciously withheld that comment from her narrative to Seamus; he’d _really_ give her an earful if he knew she’d said _that_.  
            “So what, you’re going to wait until he gives her a fat lip, maybe a black eye, before you say anything then?  You should at least tell your cousin,” he retorted, radiating disapproval.  
            “I hardly think Altaïr-”  
            “I meant Kadija.”  
            “Oh,” she frowned.  “That could get really ugly.”  
            In open, fair confrontation, she had little doubt Ezio could take either of their cousins – he had a substantial amount of weight and strength on both of them – and probably win, but neither Altaïr nor Kadija were exactly known for engaging in open confrontation and they were both formidable.  Altaïr was a machine – unfeeling, clinical, precise.  Kadija was vicious, ruthless.  _100 years ago she could have passed for a man and led a conquering army.  She’d have made one hell of a Roman General_.  Ezio still retained more humanity than she suspected either of their cousins had ever possessed, which is why if Kadija decided he needed a beat down she’d succeed, and men who beat women or children were her preferred targets.  Ezio would never even see it coming.  Mari shivered and scraped her thumbnail across her bottom lip.  
            “Think of the wagers laid on that fight,” Seamus said with a shake of his head.  “Quite frankly, I don’t know who I’d put my money on.”  
            “Well your imaginary money is safe because that’s not happening,” she replied with a warning look.  “I mean it, Shay.  Please don’t say anything to set something like that in motion.  Everyone’s been so, _brittle_ , since Mal died, it could do real damage to our family.”  
            Seamus sighed.  “Then you have to promise me that you’ll keep an eye on Ezio’s wife and make sure he’s not beating on her or anything – promise me, Mari.”  
            She squirmed under his hard look.  “Alright already,” she groaned.  “I’ll keep an eye on her – okay?”  
            “Yeah, okay then-” Seamus jerked his head vaguely in the direction of the door “-we should head over to dinner.  You can start the introductions on your side with me.”  
            “Yeah, sure,” she chirped.  _Like hell I’m running that gambit tonight.  
  
_

            Kadija flagged her down as soon as she and Seamus entered the dining hall.  _She must have been watching for me_.  It was not a comforting thought.  Seamus was looking for their friends and hadn’t noticed Kadija’s summons.  
            “Ah, there they are,” he exclaimed, jabbing his elbow into her ribcage.  “And it looks like your not-so-secret boyfriend is already sitting with them.”  
            She followed his gaze and saw that Hiro and another fidā'ī she’d seen around but never actually met were indeed already sitting with Zahra, Isra and Zofia.  His friend jostled him and Hiro looked up, breaking into a wide grin when his eyes found her.  She managed a feeble smile in response before glancing back to her cousins.  Kadija repeated her beckoning gesture and Altaïr was now also watching her.  His eyes narrowed and she immediately understood the unspoken demand in that hard gaze.  Her shoulders momentarily slumped in defeat before she caught herself and leveled them stiffly.  
            “Looks like I’m being summoned,” she replied grimly.  
            “Summoned?” Seamus repeated questioningly, dragging his eyes from Zahra.  “Oh.”  He nervously shuffled his feet.  “No chance you can ignore it or put them off until later, then?”  
            “No chance in hell,” she confirmed gloomily.  “If I don’t _obey_ Altaïr will come and fetch me – which will be vastly more unpleasant than it sounds.”  
            “It sounds pretty damn unpleasant,” he replied, gaze drifting back to the empty seat next to Zahra.  “You don’t need me along on this encounter for, I don’t know, moral support or anything, right?”  
            She slitted a quick look in his direction.  “They’ll probably tell you to go away.”  Seamus didn’t do a particularly good job of disguising his relieved sigh.  Her toes curled against the insoles of her boots in a flash of annoyance.  “But thanks anyway for the offer,” she added sarcastically.  
            “I’ll tell the others,” he offered with an apologetic grimace before slinking over to their friends.  
            She gritted her teeth and forced herself to walk over to join her cousins at an unhurried pace; she could feel dozens of eyes scrutinizing her every move.  
            “Good evening,” she greeted them stiffly as she claimed the seat across from Altaïr.  
            He acknowledged her with a grunt, and then returned to watching his sister heap chelo onto his plate.  Kadija bared her teeth in an unsettlingly wide smile as she dumped a heaping scoop of the buttery rice onto the plate in front of Mari.  
            “It’s been too long since the last time we all shared a meal together,” Kadija said, still smiling.  
            She returned Kadija’s smile uneasily; her eldest cousin had been entirely unsubtle in her general disapproval of her since she failed to rise to Mercenary.  “It has been a while,” she agreed, glancing over at Altaïr as he placed a serving of smoked fish on her plate.  He avoided her eyes; that only made her more nervous.  “Everything is well?”  
            “Oh yes, quite well.”  Kadija pushed away the smoked fish Altaïr was trying to serve her and indicated a different piece.  He sighed, dumped the rejected fish onto his own plate and served her the piece she had indicated.  
            “What are those?” she asked with a suspicious look at the pickled vegetables Altaïr dumped on her plate a moment later.  
            “Vegetables.”  
            The response was taciturn, even for Altaïr.  She bit back the annoyed retort that sprang to her lips.  
            “I _know_ they’re vegetables,” she replied, smile turning brittle.  “I was asking what kind.”  
            “The pickled kind.”  
            “Probably carrots, parsnips and radishes,” Kadija said with a quick, discreet jab to Altaïr’s side.  “But you’ll have to try them to know for sure.”  
            “Okay, thanks,” she mumbled, prodding the questionable vegetables with her fork.  She wasn’t fooled by Kadija’s superficial kindness.  She could tell Kadija had an ax to grind, everything about how her cousins were behaving – especially Altaïr, who never did anything contrary to his sister’s wishes, no matter how unpalatable he might personally find them – confirmed that this conversation was destined to turn unpleasant for her.  
            The vegetables had been pickled by color and type.  The radishes were the easiest to identify – those were white with a reddish rind – the others, not so much.  The white chunks that weren’t obviously pearl onions were _probably_ parsnips, possibly carrots, and the dark purple or orange chunks were probably carrots – but she wasn’t entirely sure.  There were also some dark red or yellow chunks she suspected were beets.  Mid-winter meals in Alamūt were heavy on hot porridge made from various grains, pickled root vegetables and smoked fish.  It was the time of year she missed Italy the most.  
            “Altaïr tells me you have a boyfriend you didn’t want us knowing about.”  Kadija’s smile flashed like razorwire and the pickled _something_ she’d been eating lodged in the back of her throat.  
            “What?” she coughed, eyes tearing from the vinegary tang.  “I hadn’t said anything because I wasn’t sure if it was _serious_ , there wasn’t any malice to it.”  She leveled an accusatory glare at Altaïr, which he – surprisingly – did his upmost to avoid meeting; usually he had the nerve to glare right back at her with a blandly disinterested look.  An uncomfortable _something_ coiled queasily in the pit of her stomach and the hair along the back of her neck prickled warningly, a reminder – woven into the memory of every fiber of her being – of danger.  
            “Which one is he?” Kadija asked with chilling pleasantness.  She knew the question wasn’t addressed to her even before Altaïr answered and took her time coughing the pickled vegetable from her throat.  
            “Second row, fourth table from the left, third one from the right, facing us.”  
            “Brown hair and wide mouth?”  
            “Yes.”  
            “What do we know of him?”  
            “Disciple from Croatia.  Trains under Ibrahim.  Assassin family.  Dead father, two older brothers – dā‘ī and vicīr – and no notable contracts.  There’s no record of any romantic attachments and his medical file is clean.”  
            Mari almost choked at that last comment.  “You pulled his _medical_ file?” she demanded, voice raspy from coughing.  “Altaïr, how dare you!  Those are supposed to be private!”  
            Kadija hummed distractedly as she brushed her question aside with a disinterested flick of her wrist.  “At least we know he’s not going to give you anything nasty and doesn’t have a wife or a betrothed waiting back in his own country.  Be grateful.  How long have they been seeing each other?”  The question was pointedly addressed to Altaïr, who answered unhesitatingly.  
            “Some weeks, I believe.”  
            “You could have asked me, you know,” she said, perhaps a trifle more loudly than necessary, eyes narrowing in annoyance.  
            “And you would have lied,” Altaïr replied.  
            Kadija tilted her head thoughtfully towards her brother as she, presumably, studied Hiro over Mari’s shoulder.  
            “Small wonder with how the two of you are behaving!” she retorted.  “Normal, _not-crazy_ , people don’t go and read the _confidential_ medical records of the guy their younger cousin is seeing.  Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you?”  
            “Hold your tongue and eat your dinner,” Kadija commanded, leveling a hard look at her.  “Allahu akbar, she’s rude, Altaïr.  She didn’t speak like this to Al Mualim, did she?”  
            “More or less.”  
            “I now see why you got in so much trouble.  Small wonder she wasn’t demoted.”  
            “I prevented it.  Al Mualim was not pleased, but he ceded to my request.”  
            Mari flushed with shame; she hadn’t known the Mentor’s displeasure was that serious.  _No wonder he’s been so angry with me_.  
            “Huh,” Kadija replied, her disapproving look intensifying.  “She has an odd way of showing her gratitude.”  
            Altaïr grunted non-committedly in response and shoveled a forkful of fish and chelo into his mouth.  She noticed he was very pointedly avoiding looking at her and her heart twisted.  _He doesn’t like this conversation any more than I do_.  She wondered how much prying Kadija had ordered him to do that afternoon.  Altaïr was frighteningly efficient when given a task to complete.  
            “I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize I had made him so angry, Altaïr.”  
            “You should have,” Kadija snapped.  “And my fool of a brother should have left you to face the consequences of your own actions.”  She continued in Farsi and Mari guessed from her tone, and that of Altaïr’s responses, that he was being lectured on that point and she felt another crippling wave of guilt.  
            She hated it when they did that – talked together in Farsi – around her; she knew they knew she couldn’t hope to follow their conversation.  They both did it with her Mother too, which was _really_ awkward because then she _knew_ they were talking about her like she wasn’t there and that she wouldn’t like what they were saying.  She looked up from listlessly pushing the food around on her plate and noticed that they were both looking across the room at Hiro as they spoke.  There was nothing subtle about their attention.  She chanced a quick look over her shoulder, conveniently at the same time Seamus looked over his.  Their eyes momentarily locked before Seamus turned back with an almost imperceptible nod and she knew her warning would be passed along.  She turned back to find both Altaïr and Kadija leveling hard looks at her.  
            “Who was that?”  
            “Her Irish friend.  Dapīr.  They are not sleeping together.”   
            “Jesus Christ!  Where do you find so much time to spy on me?” she demanded, angrily throwing her fork down beside her plate as she started to get up to leave.  
            “Sit down and eat your dinner,” Altaïr commanded, voice hard as flint.  
            “Shockingly, I’m no longer hungry,” she sassed.  
            “Then don’t eat,” Kadija replied, chillingly calm and pleasant.  “But sit down and refrain from making a scene, or by Allah, I swear I will demote you and send you back to Italy to nurse your shame.”  
            She unsuccessfully tried to swallow the knot in her throat as she stiffly sat back down and picked up her fork.  She didn’t know why Kadija was fixating on her relationship with Hiro, but it felt like she was looking for an excuse, any excuse – to demote her, to move her, and she didn’t know what was behind it.  With Kadija, she had learned, cruelty _always_ served a purpose.  _Even with all his pettiness and sulking, Altaïr wouldn't do this to me_ – _would he?_   She glanced again over at Altaïr, who was still staring dead-eyed at his food.  She didn’t _think_ he would, but she was afraid of having to count on that _.  
_             Altaïr muttered something in Farsi as he hunched over his plate before shoveling down another forkful of food.  Kadija hummed in response and then shoved her plate forward so she could rest her elbows on the table while she daintily sipped her mint tea.  Altaïr finished bolting his food in record time.  
            “Safety and peace,” he dismissed her curtly as he shoved his plate forwards and picked up his tea.  
            “Safety and peace Effendi, Effendi,” she bowed her head to both of them as she stood, hardly waiting for their acknowledging nods before striding away.  No murmurs followed her as she left the dining hall; it was hardly noteworthy for her to fight with Altaïr after all.  _Something to be grateful for, I guess_.  Seamus followed hard on her heels.  
            “What the hell just happened?” he demanded, hardly waiting for the door to close behind them.  
            “Oh, you know, just another _friendly_ chat over dinner with my loving cousins,” she said, annoyed with herself for sounding so brittle.  “Neither of them even called me a slut; our conversation somehow feels incomplete.”  
            Seamus grimaced.  “Well, that’s something to be grateful for, I guess.”  
            “You don’t say,” she drawled nastily as her eyes narrowed.    
            It wasn’t Seamus’ fault she was angry; it wasn’t even really Kadija or Altaïr’s – although they were the frontrunners if she wanted to blame anyone.  She _knew_ this would happen.  She _knew_ when her family found out she was seeing someone they’d be overbearing and overprotective and horrifyingly insensitive.  She’d known all of it and she was angry with herself for foolishly hoping it would somehow turn out differently.  
            “Don’t go biting my head off just because I’m handy,” Seamus huffed.  “I thought Altaïr told you he wouldn’t say anything; about your beau, I mean.”  
            She shrugged sharply.  “He said he wouldn’t lie for me if anyone asked.  Apparently Kadija asked.”  
            “That’s convenient.”  
            “And entirely expected.”  She sighed.  “She always knows where he’s supposed to be and when he’s not there she finds out why.”  She gnawed on the side of her thumb as she paced, restricting herself to a few steps in either direction.  _Get a hold of yourself, Mari_.  
            “No wonder she’s still unmarried.  What husband would want to compete with that level of devotion?” Seamus commented dryly as he leaned his shoulder against the wall.  
            She rolled her eyes.  “Altaïr is the last reason Kadija’s never going to marry.”  
            “What are the others?”  
            “She doesn’t want to.”  She stopped short and scrubbed her hands across her face.  “This is such a mess.  God, _I’m_ such a mess.  I should cut and run now, before something unforgivable happens.”  
            “And we’re back to relationship sabotaging,” Seamus sighed.  “You’re going to have no one to blame but yourself if you end up a lonely, bitter old woman Mari.”  
            “Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, Shay,” she snapped, turning to frown at the group of Assassins leaving the dining hall, disappointed that Hiro wasn’t among them.  
            “Oi, I ducked out early on my dinner to make sure you came out of your tangle with the honey badgers all right.  I could still be sitting with Zahra you know, so maybe try to be a little nicer, yeah?”  
            She snorted derisively.  “You were after me like a shot because you already ran through all the clever things you’d come up with to say to her in advance, and panicked about looking like a fool.  Checking in on me was just a way to play the gallant friend and look all _sensitive_.”  She reached up under her hood and tried to smooth her hair.  “Thank you, by the way.”  
            “That’s what I’m here for.”  Seamus had a chipped front tooth which made his smile look a little lopsided.  He liked to claim it had happened while playing some weird kuffār sport called ‘quidditch,’ but she knew his tooth had gotten chipped when a large, heavy tome – on some topic he found so embarrassing he _still_ wouldn’t tell her what it was – fell off a high shelf during an earthquake and hit him in the mouth.  Admittedly, the quidditch story sounded better.  
            “You’re a real friend, Shay,” she told him with an answering smile.  His fair skin flushed a little as he shrugged off the compliment.  
            “Hiro sure is taking his time,” he remarked as she scowled at yet another group of Assassins leaving the dining hall that didn’t include Hiro.  
            “He’s being careful not to draw attention,” she replied, impatiently jogging her hip.  
            “You’d think that after all this time in the Order, you lot would make more sense to me,” he grumbled.  “But you don’t.  He can’t be comfortable just sitting there getting stared down by both of your cousins – who are probably going to be critical no matter what he does – so why not just come after you and be done with it?”  
            “We’re trying to avoid gossip.  We don’t want-”  
            “Hate to be the one to tell you, but the cat is well and truly out of the bag on that account.  He’s just been sitting down for dinner and a get to know you chat with your friends – including Isra – everyone is going to know about you two by tea time tomorrow.”  
            “Some habits are hard to break.  It’s a fidā'ī thing.”  She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to stave off the headache she could feel looming.  _Fucking Isra_.  
            “Clearly.”  
            She heard the door open and Seamus’ breath catch warningly.  She didn’t have to look to know who had just left the dining hall.  
            She opened her eyes as Kadija laid a staying hand on Altaïr’s forearm and he swallowed the words he had been about to speak.  Kadija studied her thoughtfully for a moment.  
            “Don’t wait around too much longer; it gives him unearned power.”  
            Altaïr’s questioning look slid from Kadija to her and she could tell the moment he had puzzled out what his sister’s advice meant by the way his expression hardened.  
            “He is keeping you waiting?” he bit out, turning back towards the dining hall doors.  “Unacceptable.”  
            _What a fucking nightmare_.    
            Surprisingly, given the tone of their dinner conversation, Kadija intervened.  
            “Leave it, Aquila.  Let Mari fight her own battles,” she said, hooking her arm around Altaïr’s waist.  Kadija spared a sly wink over her shoulder at Mari’s stupefied expression as she led her mulish brother away.  The significance did not escape her; it was the most obvious sign of forgiveness and acceptance she knew she would ever get from her oldest cousin.  
            “Does she always _manage_ him like that?” Seamus asked, brows arched high in surprise.  
            “Yeah.”  She shrugged.  “She’s pretty much the top of the short list of people Altaïr unquestioningly obeys.  Kadija can get him to do just about anything.”  
            “They’re not…” Seamus trailed off, seeming to second guess his question after he had started to ask it.  
            “They’re not what, Shay?” she asked, eyes narrowing.  There were only so many ways that question could end, and she didn’t like the sound of any of them.  
            “They’re not _involved_ , or anything, are they?” he asked hesitantly, flinching at her infuriated look.  
            “What?” she bleated.  “They’re brother and sister, Seamus!”  She shuddered and rubbed her upper arms.  She knew there were all sorts of wild, unflattering rumors that occasionally surfaced around Alamūt about her cousins, each more ridiculous than the last.  
            “Only in a legal sense; Kadija’s adopted.  There’s no shared blood between them now is there?” Seamus argued, flushing a dark mottled pink, probably from embarrassment.  “Unless they share a father?”  
            “I doubt it; they look nothing alike,” she replied with a distracted frown.  
            “That doesn’t mean anything,” he replied with a shrug.  “I mean, look at the way she sheepdogs him around, and how in-step they are... besides, no one knows who fathered him.  You have to admit, that’s pretty strange, Mari.”  
            The door opened as another person who wasn’t Hiro left the dining hall.  She turned her attention back to Seamus.  
            “Why?  Why do I have to admit that?” she demanded irritably.  _Hurry up Hiro_.  “It’s hardly shocking, considering who his mother was.”  
            “Everything having to do with his mum was strange,” he retorted.  “She got pregnant and never named the father, but she was allowed to remain a fidā'ī and even rose to Master.  Pretty much every other single woman in her position has been forced to retire – at the very least – but she still took an astonishing number of killing contracts throughout her pregnancy and even while her child was still a babe in arms.  She never stopped.  If anything, she ratcheted up her body count, significantly.  _No one_ does that.  It’s not normal, or sane, or hell, even _human_ really.”  
            Mari shrugged.  She had been tempted to dismiss the stories about Aaliyah as fables, richly embroidered after her death to fit her legend, but her aunt’s record spoke for itself.  Fifty solo assassination contracts – many for multiple targets – over two hundred other contracts for intelligence reconnaissance or where she was partnered up with another fidā'ī, all before she died at twenty-eight.  They had called her _The Jackal_ ; many still did.  Seamus was right; everything about Aaliyah had been strange.  
            _Do you want to hazard a guess as to which of his three daughters your grandfather traded to us for the_ _greater good of the Order_? Cesare had cooed.  Her blood went cold.   
            “Can you get access to her records, Shay,” she asked softly as her heartbeat hammered in her ears.  She didn’t expect there’d be anything so obvious as a notation – _bartered to the Maraas for services to be rendered_ – but there might be traces, a pattern they could reconstruct that would help them find the truth.  
            “Kind of,” he hedged with a thoughtful frown.  “That’s another strange thing: most of the fedayin’s complete files are available for research, but not hers.  It’s under lock and key and you have to submit a formal, _written_ request to view it, and even then you can’t get the whole thing – just copies of excerpts.  It’s bizarre.”  
            “You’ve tried to get her file before?  When?  Why?”  
            Seamus shrugged.  “A couple years ago.  I tagged along when some of the older blokes went into town for drinks.  She came up.  Some of them had, well, not exactly _known_ her, but they’d seen her around, _maybe_ talked to her once, and they started telling stories.  It was creepy.  I mean, she’d been dead, for what, _fifteen years_ at that point, and they _still_ looked over their shoulders and lowered their voices.”  He shrugged again.  “Made me curious about her.  Maybe you’d have better luck; seeing how you’re family, and all.”  
            “Maybe.”  She frowned thoughtfully.  “I was given access to a few of her contract memories.  It’s a fidā'ī thing,” she hastily added at Seamus’ questioning look.  “We watch memories of Masters, study exactly what they did in a given situation and how they did it.  She was – _Jesus Christ_ – she was amazing, _perfect_.”  A wave of gooseflesh rippled across her skin at the memory of how her aunt had moved; Altaïr hunted the same way.  
            “Yeah… that’s just creepy, Mari.  Sorry,” he grimaced.  “I’ll never get used to the way you lot talk about _killing people_.  I know it’s the lifeblood of the Order and all, but still.  And you seem so _normal_ until you start talking about so-and-so’s technique for _silent kills_ and _sleeper holds_ and the like.”  
            “Some of us can’t afford to be squeamish, Shay.”  She frowned at the dining hall doors, trying to will Hiro to appear.  
            “And not all of us have to be cold-blooded either,” he sniffed in response.  She smiled at his prim and proper tone.  
            “There are many ways to serve the Order,” someone said behind them.  Mari smiled and turned expectantly towards the speaker.  “And no one path is better or more valuable than the others,” Hiro finished with a tentative smile.  “What happened with your cousins?  I wanted to go join you, but your friends didn’t think it was a good idea.”  
            “They were right,” she breathed.  “It would have been a terrible idea.  Kadija would have eaten you alive, and Altaïr would have held me back and let her.”  
            “She has that much control over him?” Hiro asked.  
            “You really have no idea,” Seamus replied for her grimly.  
            She bit back her annoyance.  “ _Enough_ , Shay.  Seamus thinks my cousins are a bit weird,” she explained, turning her attention back to Hiro with one of her better smiles.  
            “More than a bit,” Seamus corrected with a tight smile of his own.  “But I think all you lot are a little off, so it’s not really all that surprising.”  
            Mari rolled her eyes and slid her hand into Hiro’s; he smiled and intertwined their fingers.   
            “And that’s my cue to make myself scarce.”  Seamus shoved his glasses back up his nose and flashed her a quick, lopsided smile.  “You kids have fun, be safe.  Good luck storming the castle.”  That last comment had been addressed to Hiro.  She bit back a sigh as Seamus swaggered away at a fairly quick clip.  _Fleeing before Zahra comes out_ , she thought cynically.  _Actually_ – she glanced at Hiro, whose answering smile reflected her own sudden nervousness – _that’s a pretty good idea_.  
            “Did you still want to talk, like we planned earlier?” she asked hesitantly.  
            “Yes; yes I would.  I didn’t want to presume, in case talking to your family changed your mind,” he explained at her searching look.  “Did you still want to go…?”  
            “Yeah.  I think that would be the best place, don’t you?” she replied snapping up her hood.  
            “Then we should be on our way, before anyone else comes along and delays us.”  Hiro pulled his own hood up and led the way to the dormitories.  She fell in step beside him.  
            _I don’t belong to you, Cesare Maraas_.


	13. Ezio: cold comfort 2 [continued]

            _How do I even begin that conversation?  I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you lost our baby?_   He sighed and slouched further down in the overstuffed armchair by the window and propped a foot up on the windowsill.  _I need to trim my toenails_ , he noted distractedly and then sighed again and took another swig straight from the now almost half empty bottle he’d opened the night before as he listlessly fondled himself, senses further dulled with alcoholic haze.  He was still naked from his bath under the fur-lined winter robes he’d thrown on; they felt nice – comfortable and familiar – against his skin.  The chamber door opened behind him; he waited until he heard it close again, smelled the violet scent Taline wore, before he said anything.  
            “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
            “Tell you what, varpet?” she murmured as she approached to kiss him.  
            “About the baby.”  
            She froze, lips just barely brushing the thin skin of his temple as her breathing stuttered and turned shallow.  
            “I wouldn’t have-” he swallowed unsteadily “-I wouldn’t have tried to make love to you, last night, if I had known you were hurt.”  He turned his head and looked up at her, searching her shuttered expression.  “You should have told me.”  
            “I knew you’d be disappointed,” she whispered.  “I didn’t want to hurt you.”  She tried to take the bottle of ararat from him; he tightened his grip.  
            “Asad said it could hurt you, cause an infection that could kill you,” he continued, voice rising with hurt and frustration and anxiety.  “You could die, because I didn’t know and, and _forced_ , my way inside you.”  His breathing was ragged and his lungs hurt.  “You should have _told me_ , Taline.”  
            “I’m sorry.”  She pried the bottle from his grip and set it down several feet away, out of his reach.  “I only wanted to spare you this pain.”  
            “It was my child too, and I found out anyway, only it wasn’t from you.”  That part hurt the most, painfully similar to what Cristina had done.  He swallowed unsteadily.  
            “I’m sorry.”  
            His head lolled against his shoulder as he turned to look at her again.  She fidgeted under his gaze and removed her coat and gloves, tucking the gloves into her coat pocket and then draping the coat over her arm.  Her blouse was gingham – far too light for how cold it was – he could see her nipples pebbling through the thin fabric as she tried not to shiver.  
            “Is that what you wore to teach children?” he demanded, blood simmering with jealousy.  “That shirt leaves nothing to the imagination!”  The younger children probably hadn’t even noticed, but the teenagers… teenage boys _always_ noticed that sort of thing.  
            “It’s cold in here, varpet,” she protested meekly.  “You’ll catch cold.  Let’s get you dressed.”  
            She looked so beautiful, so soft and delicate, he couldn’t stand not feeling her weight in his lap, her skin against his lips.  
            “Come here,” he murmured as he reached for her.  
            She eyed him warily, like a cornered wild creature.  
            “Come here, like a good mogliettina.  Come here, Taline.”  
            She carefully set her coat down and took his hand, allowed him to pull her into his lap.  He peppered sloppy kisses down the side of her face and along her neck, fingers inexplicably clumsy as he tried to unbutton her blouse.  
            “Ezio, please.”  Her hands were shaking as she tried to push his away.  “Please don’t rip my clothes.”  
            “Then take them off.  I want to see my signature.  Show it to me, mogliettina, show me that you’re mine.”  He hauled her skirt above her knees and then slid his hand the rest of the way up between her thighs.  She started crying when he touched her there, and he pulled his hand away with a frustrated sigh.  _She needs time to heal_ , Asad’s voice chided him.  
            “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around his neck and hiding her face against him.  
            “You haven’t done anything wrong-”  
            “I lost our baby.”  She was crying so hard the words were nearly incomprehensible.  
            “We’ll make another, as soon as you’re well,” he soothed.  The feeling of her in his arms, her body pressed to his, was making him hard and he was so embarrassed to be responding like that while she was crying over her miscarriage.  _Jesus Christ, I’m pathetic.  Can’t even comfort my wife without responding like an animal in rut to her proximity._   He used the edge of his robe to gently wipe her face and tried not to think about how much he loved being inside her – the tight, hot-wet velvety clutch of her cunt, the silky-smooth warmth of her mouth.  _Holy Mary, Mother of God_ , he loved it, and he wanted it, and he was probably going straight to hell because lust was a sin and he wouldn’t fool anyone by pretending to be sorry for it.  _Bad, bad Ezione.  
_             “Promise?” she whispered.  “Promise you’re not mad at me?  Promise you still want me?”  
            He nearly choked on his shock.  “What sort of man could be mad at you for that?  Of course I still want you!  _Jesus_ , Taline.  I want you, want to be with you, want to see you carrying my children.  I want that so much.  It’s so hard to wait, mogliettina, but you’re worth it.  Worth everything I’ve had to do-” He caught himself just barely in time and faked a cough to cover his slip.  
            “What have you had to do for me, varpet?” she asked softly.  Her gaze was sharp and pointed; he could almost feel her moving under his skin.  
            _She’s Cathari_ , he reminded himself as a wave of gooseflesh rippled across his body.  He remembered how easily she had entered his mind that first night, how she had turned water into wine on their wedding day.  She was so small and delicate and soft it was easy for him to forget that she wasn’t as defenseless as she seemed.  He watched with glassy-eyed fascination as she unbuttoned her blouse.  
            “What have you had to do for me, varpet?” she repeated.  She brushed her fingertips along his signature, across the swell of her breasts, and he felt a corresponding tingling in the scar across his own chest.  A reminder that they had been bound together, of the link forged between them.  
            “I’ve killed for you, killed so many-” his breath caught as she rolled her hips, at the exquisite friction of the damp silk of her panties against him, her warm body above him “-and I waited for you, to be with you, just you.  Only you.  Night after night alone, holding myself, spilling salt with your name on my lips.”    
            She didn’t have to know about what had happened with Lucia in Roma – like his mother said, it would only hurt her – he _had_ been faithful to her when he was in Armenia and he would be completely faithful to her from this point forward.  The thing with Lucia didn’t _really_ count – it was just the death throes of a bad habit he’d finally given up.  
            Something splashed against his chest and he turned his head to look at Taline; she was crying again and he released a shuddering breath when she touched him, fingertips tracing her name scarred across his chest.  It felt so _right_.  He pressed her body to his and she shook with almost silent sobs against his chest.  He reached up beneath her skirt and cut away her underwear with a flick of his wrist before guiding himself inside her.  Her breath hitched when he penetrated her, but she gave no indication of unwillingness.  He guided her hips as she rode him, her body an impossibly tight sheath, and he touched her, teased her, focused his magic until her felt her ripple with orgasm.  
            “Please,” she whispered.  
            Her lashes were wet and heavy against her pale cheeks, lips raw and deliciously tender from the scrape of her teeth every time he thrust into her.  His own orgasm, when it finally came, was more intense than anything he had ever experienced, an exquisite release that rippled through his body to the very core of his being, and he was left breathless and reeling from the pleasure of it.  
            “What else have you had to do for me, varpet?” she asked him softly as she stroked his face, gentle fingertips tracing the curve of his lips.  
            “I, I buried them,” he whispered.  He felt the sudden tension in her muscles as she froze and he swallowed shakily before continuing, staring at the bright white glare of the dying winter sunlight on the ice-frosted windowpanes.  “In your family plots, in the cemetery.  I arranged their funerals.  I picked out their coffins and ordered their headstones, because they used to be your family, because you’re my wife-”  
            “And my father?” she hesitantly asked.  
            “Already dead,” he replied tiredly.  “Died some years ago, not long after you left.  He was buried next to your mother, with your brothers.  I brought them flowers.  White roses.”  
            “Why?”  
            “Because it was the right thing to do.”  
            She tasted like violets and ashes and ice water, and the salt of her tears only made it sweeter when she kissed him.  He wished she would kiss him like this forever.  


            He woke before dawn, heart pounding, groggy and disoriented before he remembered he was in his temporary quarters at Alamūt, that the nightmare in Armenia was over.  Taline was curled up at the edge of the bed, crying softly.  
            “Mogliettina?” he rasped.  She went still and silent at the sound of his voice.  
            He shivered as a draft of cold air wafted across his naked chest and reached for his wife.  “Come here, Taline.  Why are you crying?”  
            She was unresisting and silent as he reached through the icy air surrounding her to gather her slight body against his.  She hung in his arms like a rag doll as he cuddled her close and kissed her.  “Why are you crying, Taline?” he asked again, lips brushing the soft curve of her cheek.  
            “I don’t know.”  
            “No?”  He sighed.  “We’ll have a baby, mogliettina.  As soon as you’re ready, I’ll plant a child in your belly first chance you give me.  I promise.”  
            “Okay.”  
            She flinched when his fingers brushed against her stomach.  He tried to swallow down how much her small, involuntary reaction hurt.  _Monster.  Murderer._   
            “Is something else wrong?  Are you unhappy?” he asked, doing his best to gentle his tone.  “I want you to be happy, mogliettina.  Tell me what it is and I’ll fix whatever is wrong.”  
            “Nothing is wrong.”  
            She cuddled into him, lips brushing against the scar across his chest, and holding her felt so good, so _right_.  He hesitated a moment before reaching down between her legs to stroke her gently with a single fingertip.  He wanted to comfort her, soothe her; orgasms always made him feel better, helped him fall back asleep when he found himself wakeful in the long hours of the night, when it felt like the dark would last forever and the sun would never rise.  She tensed as he touched her, breath quickening ever so slightly.  
            “It’s okay, Taline,” he whispered against her temple.  “I’m not going to make you take me inside you.  We can make love without penetration, mogliettina.  I just want to make you feel good.”  
            “Promise?”  
            “Yeah, I promise.  Just touching.”  
            “Okay.”  
            He hesitated.  “You can tell me to stop, if you don’t want this?”  _If you don’t want me_.  He squeezed his eyes closed and took a steadying breath as the heartbreaking silence stretched.  
            “I _do_ want you, Ezio,” she whispered.  
            It wasn’t the first time she’d responded to something he’d thought but not said aloud, that he’d felt her moving under his skin.  She scared him sometimes.  
            “Yeah?” he asked hesitantly.  It frightened him how badly he needed her to want him, how much that mattered to him.  
            “Yes,” she reassured him.  “I want you as my husband.  I want to be your wife.  And I want to have your children.”  She guided his hand back between her thighs.  
            He smiled and cuddled her close, sheathing a finger inside her as she squirmed before gently fondling her breasts and sucking her hardened nipples.  “Do you like this?  Does it feel good?  Ti tira la fregna?” he asked, slipping into Italian.  Even though he’d grown up speaking Arabic at home with his mother and sister above the brothel, it wasn’t the language he usually used for sex; he _probably_ could say everything in Arabic, but he’d have to think really hard for some of the choicer words and phrases and he was _pretty sure_ she understood the general gist of what he was saying anyway.  
            “Yes, varpet,” she breathed, back arching and lashes lowering.  
            “Hai intenzione di venire per me, mogliettina?” he whispered, nuzzling against her cheek as he stroked her.  “Dio, sei bagnato!”  
            “Minet indz, Ezio.  Minet indz dzhvar e.”  She clung to him, arms thrown around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and he loved it.  He loved the way she returned his kisses, loved the feeling of her breasts pressing against his chest as she arched her back and he loved the feeling of her warm breath unfurling across his skin.  She cried out against his lips when she came, soft and desperate and it sent shivers across his body.  
            “Oh, mogliettina,” he moaned.  “Did you like that?  Did I make you feel good?”  
            “Yes, Ezio,” she murmured.  “You make me feel so good; so safe.”  
            _Safe_.  Her use of that word in relation to him raised the hairs along the back of his neck as he tried to suppress the swell of unwelcomed memories – the pregnant young woman with eyes like Taline, the old jeweler in his shop.  _Monster.  Murderer.  Brute._   
            “I’m glad.  I want you to feel good,” he said softly, hugging her tightly.  “Want you to be happy, with me.  I want us to be happy together.”  _I’m not safe.  Merciful god in heaven, don’t let me fuck this up; don’t let her see what a monster I really am_.  
            “I want that too – us to be happy together,” she replied haltingly.  “Try to sleep now, varpet.  You need your rest.”  
            Her touch was gentle as she stroked his face, fingers sliding from his brow ridge to his cheekbones down to his jaw, and then again.  Soothing.  Her magic tasted like violets and ashes and ice water and he could feel her lulling him into sleep, slipping just beneath his skin.  
            “Stay out of my memories, mogliettina,” he mumbled, tongue thick in his mouth with encroaching sleep and it felt pointless to fight it.  “I don’t want that ugliness touching you.”  
            Her fingers sank through his hair and scratched against his scalp.  “Sleep, Ezio.”  


Ω

  
            She waited for his breathing to slow and deepen in slumber before she dared to move.  Ezio looked younger and remarkably innocent asleep, his lips softly parted and curved with the barest hint of a smile.  She sighed as she carefully sat up and wiped the gathering moisture from her eyes.  
            _You sent him to Armenia to kill all of your relatives, after all_.  
            “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered in the thickening silence.  
            _The contract you signed was for your entire family, down to the last child.  Didn’t you read it?  
_             “I should have.”  She hadn’t wanted to believe Altaïr.  She hadn’t wanted to believe it when the vicīr showed her the contract, explained the terms, what everything meant.  
            _Once they are signed and sealed, our contracts are unbreakable,_ _khanum.  The only way to save them now is to sacrifice yourself, and the Assassins assigned to the contract.  A life for a life._  
            She had been faced with the inescapable truth when Ezio came home.  His mouth tasted of guilt and regret when he kissed her and he trembled in the grip of nightmares and ugly memories when he finally slept.  He reached for her with a sleepy whimper and she let him draw her against himself, soothing him with gentle touches and lingering kisses.  She wondered if he was dreaming of Cristina again, or something darker.  


Ω

  
            He woke before Taline for once and watched her sleep in the gray, early dawn light.  He eased the covers down and watched the light of the rising sun play across her body – the undersides of her breasts, the hollow of her stomach, the crest of her hipbone, the top of her spine, the delicate insides of her thighs, tantalizingly close to where he desperately wanted to kiss her but wasn’t allowed.  He sighed in frustration and traced the nasty bruise on her wrist.  He couldn’t remember how she’d gotten it, presumably when she’d dashed it against the bathroom door while fleeing from him the night before last.  He had two fingers deep inside her and one of her nipples between his teeth when she woke.  She made a small, discomforted sound, and slithered down his body to take him in her mouth.  He sighed and settled on his back, luxuriating in her touch.  Her name slid from his lips with his prayer when he came.  
            “What are your plans for the day Ezio?”  
            “Nothing too dangerous.  Teaching the little ankle-biter brats so I can be close to you, mogliettina.”  He rolled onto his side and watched her get up and get dressed, rolling his bottom lip against the tip of his tongue as he made a thorough study of every layer and article of clothing she was putting on.  He put on his own clothing as he followed her to the bathroom.  
            “We’ll have our lunch break around the same time, perhaps we can try to make the most of it?” he suggested innocently as he stood behind her, watching how she coiled her hair.  
            “You know I like to use that time to prepare for my afternoon classes,” she protested.  
            “Make an exception, for me?” he wheedled, fastening the pasha’s diamond pendent around her throat so that the lovely jewel nestled just between her breasts.  
            Her breathing stuttered and the blood drained from her face at the sight of the gem.  
            “Where did you get this?”  She had gone ashen-pale.   
            “In Armenia-”  
            “From my Uncle Krikor,” she whispered, fingertips hovering over just over the pendant.  “His finest work.”  
            “He remembered you fondly, mogliettina,” he replied uncomfortably, cursing his stupidity for not realizing that she would recognize her uncle’s necklace.    
            _But you knew she’d recognize it, didn’t you?  You knew she would know how I got it and you wanted to make sure I couldn’t hide my sins from her.  Clever old devil_.  
            “He said he liked the idea of you wearing a necklace made for a pasha’s wife while you played on the floor with our children.”  
            A small, shaky laugh, pitched high and nervous, escaped her lips.  “That sounds like Uncle Krikor.”  
            He smiled hesitantly, unsure how to gauge her response, and slid his hands over her upper arms to rub her shoulders.  Her body was tense, but she permitted his touch.  He pressed gentle kisses against the side of her neck, working his way up to her cheek.  This wasn’t the reaction to the necklace he had expected.  He thought she’d be delighted to receive such a beautiful and valuable gift, that his gesture would be rewarded with affection, praise, maybe even sex – if she liked it enough – that it would make her happy; he wasn’t prepared for her to react with thinly veiled shock and horror.  He hoped he hadn’t made things worse.  
            “He’s dead then, isn’t he; him and all of my cousins.  This wouldn’t have come to me otherwise,” she said softly, unflinchingly meeting his eyes in the mirror.    
            He looked away first.    
            “He wasn’t on my list.  It was you who killed him, wasn’t it?  How did Uncle Krikor die, Ezio?”  Her body was stiff and tension-tight under his hands  
            “Jesus, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?” he muttered, avoiding her eyes as he scratched the back of his neck.  
            “How did my uncle die?” she pressed.  There was something else beneath the brittleness to her tone, something steel hard and fierce, and it reminded him that he might be the fragile one in their relationship.  
            “Like a man,” he snapped.  “Unbowed and unafraid.  I made it clean and quick; he was gone before his body hit the floor.”  Her posture had stiffened as he spoke, expression shuttered and empty and her hand had convulsively closed around the pendant, clutching it tightly.  
            “He felt no pain,” he added softly, gently.  “I am a Master Assassin, mogliettina; they felt no pain.”  
            “Thank you.”  She released the pendant, dropping it down between her breasts, beneath her blouse.  “I still have to be cleared by the medics before work.  Oh, I almost forgot, Mari is coming to dinner tonight.  She’s bringing her young man.”  She finished buttoning her blouse and turned to him, rising up on her toes to kiss his cheek.  “I don’t want to be late, varpet.”  
            “Taline-”  
            “I don’t want to be late,” she repeated as she strode away, heels tapping sharply against the floor.  
            He heard the door close behind her with a soft click before he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  It took another moment for Taline’s carefully offhanded comment to sink in.  _Mari is coming to dinner tonight.  She’s bringing her young man_.  
            “Che cazzo!” he swore.


	14. Altaïr: intro Tārā

            Altaïr exhaled slowly and rolled his weight from one hip to the other, the movement carefully controlled to coincide with his breathing, as he waited in Alamūt’s vast mirror room for his new student to arrive.  _She should have arrived by now, unless she is unable to travel as quickly as expected_.  His narrowed eyes were the only hint of annoyance he allowed himself to express.  A ripple of movement in one of the mirrors caught his attention and he turned towards it expectantly.  An exhausted and travel-worn young man stepped through the glass – eyes shadowed and clothing rumpled, streaked with dirt and sweat and fair amount of blood that hopefully wasn’t his own.  _Clearly his contract did not go as planned_ , Altaïr noted dispassionately, his annoyance increasing.  The other Assassin visibly startled when he caught sight of him.  
            “Effendi!” he gasped out, frantically trying to smooth his robes as he squared his shoulders.  “I had not expected anyone to be here.”  
            Altaïr suppressed a sigh as he leveled his gaze, letting the silence stretch long enough to become uncomfortable.  “Clearly.”  He watched the other assassin flinch under his scrutiny.  _Sloppy.  He’s going to get himself killed before he sees another winter_.  
            “Come to me in the training grounds tomorrow; we’ll talk then,” he commanded.  _Probably one of Ibrahim’s students; he doesn’t train them enough before he sends them out on contracts_.  The callousness of it irked him.  
            “I-yes, Effendi,” the fidā'ī muttered, tipping his chin so that his hood further obscured his face.  
            “Go,” he said in dismissal, tone flat and hard.  “Safety and peace, Assassin.”  
            “Safety and peace, Effendi,” came the immediate reply, heavy with poorly concealed relief.  
            Altaïr turned his attention back to the empty mirrors, willing himself absolutely still even though he desperately wanted to pace.  The other fidā'ī tried to leave as quickly and quietly as possible, but it wasn’t anywhere near skillful enough.  It hardly took concentration, only the slightest flex of his magic, and the enormous mirrors awakened to reflect the other fidā'ī’s stiff, self-conscious walk from the room, every angle of his progress reflected and repeated to infinity in the scores of enormous mirrors down the long walk to the room’s wide doorway.  _His right foot is dragging; it doesn’t sound like a recent injury_.  He rolled his weight back to his other hip, annoyed at the state the fidā'ī had returned in, that he’d been sent on another contract before his wounds had fully healed from the one before; practices like that got Assassins killed.  There wasn’t any point in saying anything to Ibrahim, not really; it would only start an argument he had no way of really winning and he could tell he was already irritable and _brittle_ from his discussion with Al Mualim earlier that afternoon.  He exhaled slowly and let the mirrors empty, become again just shadowy reflections of the various Motherhouses and bureaus they connected to, but the entire encounter came rushing back and refused to be ignored.  


            He had been studying the enormous world map thoughtfully, watching the colors shift as conflicts burst into blossom then withered away, leaving dark, purplish-black stains of mass death that were slower to fade.  There were multiple spots all over the map where the death-glow did not fade, too large and out of the way to be hospitals, too dark to be prisoner of war camps; he wondered what that meant.  It was getting easier to maintain his Eagle Vision – he could look deeper for longer – the depth and limit slowly expanding as he pushed it further and further each time.  He was still learning to interpret the deeper layers he was now seeing but he enjoyed the challenge, delighted to find there was still more to learn in a skill he had thought he’d mastered years ago.  
            “Altaïr.”  
            “Efendim,” he responded, tearing his eyes away from the map to bow as Al Mualim approached.  
            “Kadija said I would find you here,” Al Mualim said, stopping beside him and turning towards the map.  He propped his cane against a carved column of the balustrade and rested his hands on its top.  “She says you can often be found here, alone, studying the map.”  
            “Yes, Efendim.  My apologies, I didn’t know that you had summoned me,” he murmured, watching the older man closely for any indication of his thoughts; he found none.  
            “I had not,” Al Mualim sighed and leaned his weight into his braced hands.  “But I thought rather than summoning you to my chambers, I would come and find you.  Tell me – why do you come here so often?”  
            He contemplated the Mentor’s question for a moment before answering.  “I find the quiet soothing; there are not many places within these walls where my solitude will be undisturbed.”  
            Al Mualim smiled at that with a soft huff of breath.  “Not the Garden?”  
            “The Garden is very beautiful,” he conceded.  “But it is also a popular choice for individuals seeking privacy.”  The Mentor chuckled under his breath at that.  He puzzled over that response for a moment before he made the connection with a guilty flush.  “I didn’t mean-”  
            “Of course not,” Al Mualim interrupted him smoothly.  “What is it about the map that draws you?”  
            Altaïr rolled his weight to his other hip and turned back to the map, watching the brilliant red of conflict darken to death.  
            “The map is interesting; the deeper I look, the more there is to see.”  
            “And what more are you seeing?”  
            “Death.  I see death,” he replied, noticing the way Al Mualim stiffened slightly from the corner of his eye.  “There are places on the map where large numbers of people are continuously dying – not hospitals or battlefields – it’s… strange.  I don’t understand it.”  He took a deep breath and pushed himself to see deeper.  “The mirror roads shimmer like opals,” he murmured.  “And Alamūt glows golden.”  He frowned as he noticed glowing flecks of gold scattered other places across the map as well.  “Alamūt is not the only golden place on the map.  Why is that Efendim, what am I seeing?”  
            Al Mualim was silent for a long time, brows drawn fiercely downward in thought as he studied the map.  “Tell me, Altaïr, how is your relationship with the succubus?” he finally asked softly.  
            “I am her lover, as you have known.  Why are you asking me this?” Altaïr replied, confused by the question.  
            “You are changed of late, Altaïr.  Several of our brethren have expressed concern, and I cannot help but share their concerns, that you have grown too close to the succubus.”  
            He blinked and took an involuntary half step back, reeling in surprise.  
            “I don’t understand-”  
            “She has too much control over you, Altaïr.  What would you do if her demands came into conflict with your vows?”  
            “Sirocco knows my first loyalty is to the Order.  She would never ask me to compromise that,” he replied, shocked at the thought.  The Mentor’s repetition of his name made him uneasy, like he was about to be chastised for a wrong he hadn’t realized he was committing.  “Who has come to you with these concerns?”  
            “That is unimportant,” Al Mualim replied with a dismissive gesture.  “What should concern you is that I agree with them.”  
            Altaïr scowled at the balustrade.  Those supposed concerns must have come from his fellow Masters, or far less reliable sources, if the Mentor was unwilling to name them.  There was also the possibility that Al Mualim had fabricated the other Assassins’ expressed concerns, but he thought that unlikely.   
            “That does concern me, Efendim, but I also cannot help but wonder why I am only now being told of these reservations,” he replied carefully, tone meticulously neutral.   
            “I’m getting old, Altaïr,” Al Mualim replied.  “The Grandmasters have been agitating for me to name a successor.”  
            Altaïr frowned.  “They are skirting treason to speak so openly of your fall.”  
            “Only when it’s with each other in secrecy, not when spoken directly to me,” Al Mualim sighed.  He sounded weary, old.  “They demand a clear, unbroken line of authority from myself to the Order’s next Mentor, and they are right to do so in these unsettled times.  The Order must stay stable to remain strong and our greatest strength lies in our unity.”  
            Al Mualim was right – of course Al Mualim was right.  Altaïr knew the Order’s history and could recall it with the same ease he used to bring forth his physical training: the Order was sprawling in its scale, its many Motherhouses separated by vast gulfs of distance and culture, but its center, its heart, was Alamūt, and the unquestioned authority of Al Mualim is what kept the Order’s most ancient fortress strong.  If Al Mualim died without naming a successor, the power void created could tear the Order apart as Grandmasters squabbled amongst themselves for the Mentor’s mantle.  It had happened before, when his ancestor and namesake effectively staged a one-man coup by executing the ruling Al Mualim for treason to the Order and claiming the Mentor’s mantle for himself.  The great Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad had then spent the rest of his life repairing the damage he himself had inflicted on the Order he had loved and always served.  He had been lucky, timed his coup well – the Order’s many enemies had been too embroiled in other conflicts to decisively act against it in its weakened state – and so the Order had survived, but it may not be so lucky again.  
            “Of course, Efendim.”  His heart ached at the thought of losing this man he’d known all his life, the man who’d trained his mother and overseen his and Kadija’s own training.  Alamūt – his home – would not feel the same.  
            “And so it shall always be, insha’allah,” he murmured.  
            “Insha’allah,” Al Mualim repeated softly after a moment.  
            He could feel the silence between them filling, like water running into a cup, and soon it would overflow from its container and inexorably carry them towards the conversation he’d been dreading.  Sometimes he wondered what it would feel like to throw his responsibilities, his obligations and duty, to the wind and careen through life as recklessly as Ezio did, without a thought or care as to the consequences, but he was not that type of man.  He could never be that type of man.  There was nowhere left to hide, no point in trying to escape it.  He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine.  
            “Tell me your command, and I will see Al Mualim’s will be done,” he said, tone carefully tempered to be void of any emotion, to convey only obedience.  
            “It should be you that I name,” Al Mualim said slowly.  There was a heaviness to the Mentor’s words, an emotional undercurrent he could sense but didn’t understand.  “It’s what _she_ wanted, what she raised you to be.  And you’ve earned it; your skills are unparalleled, in this or any age,” the elderly Mentor continued, fingers curling to claws against the balustrade.  “But I cannot name you as the next Al Mualim.  The succubus’ hold on you is too strong; she would use you as a puppet to control the Order, to take what she wants, and the power she would then wield would be a great and terrible thing.  Enough to destroy the Order, the world as we know it, and I cannot chance that as my legacy.  Kadija will be named as my successor.  You can surely understand why, Altaïr?”  
            “You mean for me to understand that, but for my relationship with Sirocco – a relationship of which you have always appeared to approve – I would be your successor?” he asked softly.  His relief was almost entirely overshadowed by sharp bitter feelings of hurt and rejection, and, unexpectedly, disappointment.  His reaction confused him but he would wait until later, in the privacy of his rooms, to dissect and analyze the cacophony of emotion buzzing in his head.  
            “I am sorry it must be like this, Altaïr.  I trusted that your loyalty to the Order would inure you to the power of her thrall.  I miscalculated.  I cannot tell if you were not as strong as I thought or if her power is greater than I believed it to be.  Either way, I set you to a task for which you were not adequately prepared and it is not your fault that you have been compromised; it is entirely mine.  However, I cannot name one so compromised the next Al Mualim.  Aaliyah would not understand, but I will go to peace knowing I did my best to honor her wishes and work.”  
            “I understand, Efendim.  A master does not apologize to his mamlūk,” he replied.  Al Mualim’s direct reference to his mother was the catalyst that ignited the roiling amalgam of emotion he felt, searing through the white noise with astonishing clarity and leaving blessed nothingness in its wake.  _Embrace the pain, it will only make you stronger_ , his mother had whispered in his ear.  _There is Assassin steel in your soul, my treasure_.   
            “I am sorry, Altaïr, truly.  This is not how I wanted it to be, but I must choose what is best for the Order.  It is my duty,” Al Mualim said.  It was almost as though he was pleading, if such a tone could ever be attributed to the Order’s Mentor, Altaïr noted distractedly.  
            “I take it this means the debt has been cleared-”  
            “What debt, my child?”  
            “The debt you sold me to pay.  Did you think I had forgotten that?  Was selling my body to her for the greater good of the Order, Efendim?”  
            “It seemed so.  At the time,” Al Mualim responded stiffly.  
            “And whom will you sell me to next, Efendim?” he asked, bitterness and hurt bleeding through his voice and he hated himself for the weakness it betrayed.  
            “Whomsoever I choose,” Al Mualim snapped.  “Are you questioning my judgment, Altaïr?”  
            “No, Efendim.  I am not,” he mumbled, chastened by how dangerously close he had unthinkingly come to treason.  “I will see Al Mualim’s will be done.”  
            “And if I told you to give the succubus up?”  
            “Please don’t ask that of me.”  
            “It would be an order, not a request, Altaïr.”  
            “Please,” he whispered.  “If you ever had any fondness for me, for the memory of my mother, please do not order me to do that.”  
            “Can there remain any doubt that you have been compromised by your relationship with her?” the Mentor asked, tone hard and mercilessly cold.  
            “My loyalty is to the Order.  My life is in your hands.  What is Al Mualim’s command?” he replied, voice hollow and expertly empty of emotion.  His mother would have been proud.  He closed his eyes as he waited for a response, hardly daring to breathe as the silence stretched.  
            “I have been informed that your new student should arrive this evening from Jaipur.  Meet her in the mirror room and see that she is settled in.  She is to dine with you in your rooms tonight.  You should reflect on this conversation while you wait,” Al Mualim finally replied.  
            He exhaled slowly, immeasurably grateful that he had not been given the order he dreaded.  “I will see Al Mualim’s will be done.”  


            Later that same day he stood in the room he had selected for Tārā, inspecting it as the house elves hovered about anxiously.  It was his habit to select his students’ rooms – not that he doubted the majordomo’s ability to perform the task, but he liked to be sure their accommodations could not in any way be faulted or found lacking.  The majority of his students were on training loans of varying durations from other Motherhouses in the Order, and it was his duty to ensure they spoke highly of Alamūt to their brethren when they returned from training.  
            He had reviewed the available rooms and selected the warmest for Tārā.  Acclimated to the temperatures of the Indian subcontinent, he suspected that winter in the mountains of northern Iran would come as a shock, and that Tara would be less likely to find the room uncomfortably hot in the warmer summer months than other fidā'ī who came from less arid climates.  He was inspecting the blackout curtains – heavyweight blue corded silk, shot with metallic bronze threads – when Kadija sidled up beside him.  
            “I’m sorry, Aquila.”  
            “For what?” he asked distractedly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.  The silk was heavily weighted, prone to shattering; he checked the folds carefully for the telltale cracks.  
            “For telling Al Mualim where to find you.”  She shuffled her feet uncomfortably and the intensity of her gaze was burning his skin.  
            “He asked you a question.  What could you do but answer him?”  The curtains appeared to be in good condition.  He turned his attention to the bedding.  
            “That’s not the only thing I’m sorry for,” she said softly, fingers barely grazing his forearm.  
            He turned and squarely met her eyes.  “I am happy for you, Labiwa, truly.  It’s what’s best for the Order.  Long may Al Mualim live – insha’allah – but he could have chosen no worthier successor.  Mother would be proud of you,” he added as he turned to inspect the sleeping pallet.  “This has been freshly filled, with new materials?” he queried the elves.  He received a curt nod from the eldest elf present.  The pallets were filled with layers of second shearing roving and unprocessed cotton fiber, liberally scattered with fine cedar shavings and sawdust – which deterred all forms of insect life from inhabiting the otherwise inviting bedding materials.  Over time, however, the cotton and roving became lumpy and the cedar lost its piquancy.  His own mattress was stuffed with feathers and dried lavender – Sirocco’s preference – it was comfortable, but expensive to maintain and he didn’t actually care much about what he slept on either way.  
            “She would not be pleased that my rise comes at your expense,” she replied sourly.  “The Mentor’s mantle should have gone to you.  All three of us know this.”  
            “I know no such thing,” he retorted, scowling at the blankets neatly spread over the bed.  “Where is the down comforter I explicitly ordered?  Why was it not included?”  
            The heavy gold rings in the elf’s ears wobbled as it furiously signed its response.  _Not standard.  Have to pay_.  The elf did not use the sign indicating an apology.  
            “I know that, which is why I specifically-”  
            “Stop taking your foul mood out on the elves, Altaïr,” Kadija admonished him sharply.  
            “I’m not-”  
            “Stop.”  
            He gritted his teeth as he folded his arms defensively across his chest.  Kadija sighed.  
            “A down comforter?  That is unusually generous, even for you,” she commented carefully.  “Who is this new student of yours?”  
            He held his silence a moment past politeness before responding.  “Do you remember Viaan Rajasthan?”  
            “Your friend in Jaipur; yes, of course,” she hesitated.  “We have all been lessened by his loss.”  
            He dropped his eyes to the oxblood tiles of the floor; reminders of Viaan’s death still stung.  “My new student was one of his, his sister-”  
            “I didn’t know he had a sister,” she interrupted him in surprise.  “Did you?”  
            “No,” he admitted.  “Very few people did, including Viaan’s lover, Mayura; she poisoned them both out of jealousy.  Tārā survived.”  He swallowed shakily.  “Viaan did not.”  He watched his sister’s spine stiffen in the sprawling silence.  
            “How horrible for her, to watch a best beloved brother die.  I don’t want to imagine the pain she must be feeling,” she said softly.  “See to the down comforter the effendi ordered.  I will pay for it,” she continued, raising her voice to address the elves.  “As well as a sheepskin rug beside the bed; these floors can get cold in the winter.”  
            “It is now you who is being unusually generous,” he commented.  
            She shrugged.  “We both can afford to be.”  
            He hummed in agreement and went over to inspect the radiator.  “Al Mualim accused me of being _compromised_ by my relationship with Sirocco.  He claimed several have come to him with concerns about my loyalty to the Order over any loyalty I may feel towards my lover.  Have you said anything to him like that, Labiwa?”  
            “I have never questioned your loyalty, Altaïr, never,” she snapped.  “More than anything, I want you to be happy, little brother,” she continued, tone softened.  “And Sirocco… she clearly makes you happy while she’s here, but I also see how you suffer when she’s away and I worry that you’ve grown too attached.  I worry about what will happen when she gets bored of your devotion and discards you for another.”  
            “She won’t,” he insisted.  “She loves me.  She wouldn’t leave me like that.”  
            “Her kind is not like ours.  You may think you know her, understand her, but you don’t.  You can’t.  None of us can, not really, the Maraas exist beyond our full comprehension.”  
            “I love her,” he whispered.  
            “I know, Aquila,” she replied, words twisted and wreathed in regret and something else that almost sounded like pain.  “A fish may love a bird, but that’s no guarantee that the bird won’t still devour it.”  
            “I am not a fish.”  
            He tugged his sleeve up slightly, pressed the side of his wrist against the exposed hot water pipe feeding into the radiator, and held it there, exhaling slowly as the pain seared up his arm, intensifying, increasing, with every passing second.  He held it there, counting the steady slow beat of his heart.  _One… two… three_ … he concentrated on the physical pain, suppressing it, controlling it … _four… five… six_ … until he felt nothing else… _seven… eight… nine_ …  He pulled away from the pipe and shook his sleeve down over his wrist.  He felt nothing.  
            “Make sure you put ointment on that,” Kadija said.  “You don’t want another scar.”  
            “Yes, Efendim.”  
            Her nostrils flared.  “Don’t call me that.”  
            “Yes, Effendi.”  He walked over towards the sink tucked into the corner of the room, pausing to run his fingers over the finely carved wooden screen folded flat against the wall beside it before continuing to the sink and inspecting the taps.  
            “You know that Al Mualim naming you as his successor doesn’t change anything between us.”  He lifted his head and met her eyes in the mirror above the sink.  The top right corner of the mirror was beginning to cloud with age.  “You’ve always told me what to do.”  
            “You’ll have to obey me now.”  
            “I always have.”  
            She crossed the distance between them to stand beside him, her arm around his waist.  “Nothing is going to change between us,” she promised.  
            He nodded and placed his hand on top of hers.  “Nothing,” he repeated.  He squeezed her hand when she squeezed his side.  There was a new emptiness in her eyes and he realized that she already knew that everything would change.  
            “I’m sorry.”  
            “Me too,” she replied.  


            He stifled an impatient sigh, shifted his weight again, and started mentally calculating how many kilometers he could have run in the time he’d been waiting.  He estimated around ten.  He exhaled slowly through his nose – the closest thing to a sigh he would allow himself under the circumstances – and dragged his eyes over the room’s many enormous mirrors.  _She should have been here by now_.  That fact was starting to worry him a little, but it was still too soon for him to do much besides continue to wait and attempt to distract himself with other thoughts.  
            Kostya, one of his fifth tier Veterans, was becoming impatient to return to Russia.  The Russian branch of the Order had been more or less hemorrhaging fidā'ī since the country’s revolution, with a decided increase since the outbreak of another kuffār war in Europe.  Finding recruits wasn’t the problem; people from all levels of society fled to the Order – Tsarists seeking protection from the Bolsheviks, war orphans with nowhere else to turn and still many others searching for a way out of abject crushing poverty – the Russian Assassins were in desperate need of Masters to train their legions of low ranking fidā'ī.  The staggering mortality rates meant that only a relatively small number of fidā'ī were ever able rise to the higher ranks, and they were then bogged down from rising further by the demands of trying to train so many others.  The Grandmaster of Moscow, Kostya’s uncle Ivan, would undoubtedly raise him to Master as soon as he returned.  
            Altaïr could understand Kostya’s impatience to return home – undoubtedly fueled by both his sense of duty and personal ambition – but he was reluctant to let him go.  Alamūt had taken in a fair number of low ranking fidā'ī and underage Assassins in an attempt to ease some of the burden on Russia’s overwhelmed infrastructure, but the majority spoke little to very poor Arabic which severely limited the ability of most of Alamūt’s Veterans and Masters to effectively teach and mentor them.  He had invested a staggering number of additional hours in helping Kostya mentor and train the Russian-speaking fidā'ī.  Over the last month, he had focused on teaching Kostya the skills he would need as a Master – how to manage numerous training schedules and contract assignments, what to look for and focus on when assessing his students’ completed contracts.  Kostya was eager to learn and improving steadily, but the undeniable fact was that he was very nearly performing the full duties of a Master, without the status or compensation; it wasn’t fair.  Ideally, Kostya would stay and become a Master of Alamūt, but Altaïr knew the Russian wouldn’t accept the offer; he was desperate to return home.  
            He and Kadija had taken to calling it _The Russian Problem_.  
            He raked his teeth along his bottom lip and cast about for a solution, considering and then rejecting one potential candidate after another.  _What about Irika?_   His breath caught.  Irika Viktrova was a fifth-tier Veteran from the Ukraine, currently stationed in Bulgaria.  They’d met last year on a contract in Turkey.  In addition to her native Ukrainian, he knew Irika spoke fluent Russian and passable Turkish; her Arabic was choppy, but would probably improve with practice.  He decided to ask the elves to pull her file when he returned to his rooms that evening.  Unless he found anything outright objectionable he’d get Al Mualim’s permission to request that she be transferred to him; he doubted his request would be denied.  With a few intensive months of assessment and training she’d probably be ready to be promoted and assume the responsibilities of a Master.  The tricky part would be keeping Kostya at Alamūt until Irika could take over for him.  He decided to leave the solution to that part of the problem to Kadija.  
            He caught a ripple of movement across one of the mirrors out of the corner of his eye and snapped his full attention to it expectantly.  A young woman swathed in billowing dark robes and holding a baby stepped through the glass.  She started with a small cry of surprise when she saw him and drew the edge of the shayla she was wearing across the lower half of her face.  He hastily averted his eyes with an apologetic murmur, not wishing to compound his rudeness, and obliquely watched her scurry past him with distracted interest.  _Probably one of the dā‘ī returning from a family visit_.  He chanced a more direct glance and his gaze was met by the bright dark eyes of the child she was carrying; it stopped gnawing on its fist with a little squeal of laughter and waved its arm at him with a wide, slobbery grin.  It squealed again when he tentatively smiled at it.  He breathed with relief when the woman and her child turned around a corner and out of sight a moment later.  He never knew how to act around babies and small children and it aggrieved him that they seemed to be drawn to him; older children and adults at least had the sense to keep their distance.  Malik’s twins had followed him around like ducklings every time he had visited.  He swallowed his sigh and turned his attention back to the mirrors.  
            He’d been focusing on his breathing and counting his heartbeat – 45 beats per minute, he needed to work on that – for some time when he heard the soft scrape of a fidā'ī’s leather-soled boot on the glassy-smooth stone floor and turned expectantly towards the sound.  A young woman had just staggered through one of the mirrors.  _This, finally, must be her_.  She was thin and shaky, the color leached from her skin by exhaustion and illness, leaving her jaundiced and pale.  Her robes hung on her spare frame and her hair and eyes were dull.  
            “Tārā Rajasthan?” he asked as he approached and reached for the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder; it looked far too heavy for her, especially considering the state she was in.  
            “I am Tārā,” she replied, jolting in surprise when he took the bag from her shoulder.  “Who are you?”  
            “I am Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad,” he replied.  “Al Mualim has assigned me as your mentor while you are here,” he added, smiling wryly down at his clothing when she continued to stare at him suspiciously.  _I should have probably dressed as a Master for this introduction_.  He was well known around Alamūt – all of the Masters were – but especially him in particular, and he took for granted that his status would be recognized, regardless of his clothing.  
            “My apologies, Raj.  I did not know you,” she replied as she nervously smoothed her hair back with one hand.  He disapprovingly noted the way her hand tremored as she performed that gesture.  
            _She is still not recovered.  Her Grandmaster should not have allowed her to make such a long journey_.  The callousness it suggested irritated him.  
            “How could you be expected to?  We have never met and I am not dressed as expected of a Master.”  He slung her bag onto his shoulder and gestured for her to accompany him with a careful sweep of him hand.  “Al Mualim has requested that you dine in my chambers this evening and I will show you to your room afterwards.  Unless-” he paused, noticing the way her footsteps dragged, how unsteady she was on her feet.  “-you should go to the infirmary?  It was a long journey and you do not seem entirely well.”  
            “No, thank you, Raj,” she replied, mouth tightening and eyes hardening.  “I’ve had enough of medics and their methods.”  
            “Understandable.  I, too, am well acquainted with that feeling, but you must not let it prevent you from seeking the treatment you need to regain your health,” he admonished softly as he escorted her from the mirror room.  “A Master’s title here is Effendi.  The first, I’m sure, of many differences from the Jaipur Motherhouse you’ll encounter during your stay.”  
            “Of course.  Again, my apologies for my ignorance; I had little opportunity to prepare before I was transferred.”  
            “Of course.  I wondered that your transfer was effected so soon after-” he bit his lip and hesitated, choosing his next words with care.  “I am very sorry; long will the Order feel your brother’s loss.”  
            “My brother Assassin, you mean, Ra-Effendi?” she replied cautiously.  There was a current of tension running just below the surface of her tone.  He wondered what it meant.  
            “Your brother in the Order as well as by blood,” he clarified.  “Viaan was a great man, a great Assassin.  It is an honor to be his sister; why do you deny him?”  
            “You have been misinformed-”  
            “My information came directly from Al Mualim,” he interrupted her, losing patience with her denial; he didn’t understand it.  “Think very carefully before you call him a liar.”  He caught her upper arm when she stumbled on the icy steps leading to the dormitory building and continued to hold it after she had regained her balance; she made no effort to shrug him off.  
            “Yes, Raj Viaan was my brother by our father.  Our mothers were also sisters.  The blood was thick between us,” she finally admitted softly.  “You were his friend, weren’t you?  Now I remember where I had heard your name before; it was from him.”  
            “Yes.  We were friends,” he replied softly, steeling himself to betray no emotion at the admission.  “Great friends, I believe.  Had anyone but Al Mualim told me of his falling I would not have believed such a thing could have happened to him.”  
            “Had I not seen it, I would not have believed it either.”  Her words were bitter, angry.  
            _How horrible for her, to watch a best beloved brother die_.  He remembered Kadija’s comment and silently agreed.  
            They were at the door to his chambers before it occurred to him to wonder if Sirocco might be waiting inside for him, which could lead to a very awkward and embarrassing situation for his new student; Sirocco was strongly inclined towards nudism.  He hesitated a scant moment before unlatching the door; the walk had not improved Tārā’s condition, and meeting Sirocco would clarify his situation before any uncomfortable ideas developed.   
            His rooms were unoccupied – save for his cat – but Sirocco had been there recently; her scent still lingered – Madonna lilies and myrrh – and he could feel his body stirring in response.  She’d left a champagne silk slip and a pair of tissue thin stockings strewn across his bed, almost as though she had somehow known of Al Mualim’s instructions regarding Tārā and was marking her territory.  He found it both embarrassing and comforting.  Augustine, who’d been dozing on the cashmere lap blanket he’d claimed, greeted him with a sleepy meow.  
            “Hello August.  Have you been good while I was away?” he greeted his pet coolly as he set Tārā’s bag down and beckoned her to enter.  “This is my cat; Sirocco named him Augustine.  Would you like something to drink?  I can offer water, unless you would like the elves to bring you something else?”  He had stridden over to the pitcher on the dining table and bit back a sigh; there were rose petals floating in the water, again.   
            “Thank you, Effendi.  Something hot, please?” Tārā murmured.   
            “Of course.”  He bundled up the garments Sirocco had left on his bed and set them on top of the trunk she kept next to his bureau.  In all honesty, he was a little surprised that his cat hadn’t already snagged the filmy fabrics.  _How does he know to leave her belongings alone?_   He shrugged off the question and stamped for an elf.  
            “You can pet him; most people do.  He’s very used to it,” he commented as he waited, having noticed the way Tārā kept glancing at his cat.  
            “Of course, thank you,” she replied with a sickly smile before she leaned over towards Augustine.  “Here puss, puss.  Nice kitty.”  
            Augustine spared her a languid look before turning his gaze back to Altaïr.  He sighed.  Most people who came to his chambers fell over themselves to ingratiate themselves with his cat; his students were particularly prone to this, especially the ones who weren’t really all that fond of cats to begin with.  He wasn’t sure quite how to interpret Tārā’s lackluster efforts, although Augustine was clearly unimpressed.  
            His skin tingled with the effervescent brush of magic he always noticed before the elves appeared.  A heartbeat later he heard the electric crackling that signaled an elf’s arrival.  He dragged his attention away from his new student, and his cat, to request that hot tea be served with the repast he’d specially ordered for that evening.  He didn’t have to request the cat’s meal; the elf had brought it when it responded to his summons.  
            “Dinner, August,” he announced unnecessarily; Augustine never failed to notice the arrival of his food.  “Get up, kun-gošâd.”  
            The cat took his time yawning before pouring himself out of the armchair he’d occupied and sauntering over to his dish.  He rubbed himself against Altaïr’s legs in passing, casually marking him.  _It seems Siro isn’t the only one feeling possessive this evening_.  He wondered what it was about Tārā that fostered that feeling in those closest to him and if Kadija would respond similarly.  His lips quirked at the thought of his sister being possessive of him; he couldn’t even imagine how she would act.  The elf tugged the edge of his robe to draw his attention and he stifled a hiss of annoyance as he complied.   
            _Serve special meal now?_ it signed.  
            “Yes, please do,” he murmured, studying the elf thoughtfully.  He couldn’t be too sure, but it didn’t look like the elf that usually served him; its eyes were a muddy brown instead of the silvery color he had noticed before.  He decided to risk it.  “Where is my usual attendant?”  
            _Unwell.  
_             He frowned.  It wasn’t unheard of to fall ill during the bitter winter months, but Augustine created additional work for the elves – which they had happily taken on – and he wanted to convey his gratitude.   
            _Do good work_ , the elf frenetically signed at the sight of his frown, indicating itself.  _Very fast, very strong.  Discreet.  Loyal.  Good worker.  
_             “What’s it saying?” Tārā asked, watching the elf’s gesticulations nervously.  He stayed the elf with a subtle gesture before turning and striding over to his bureau.  
            “It says my usual attendant is unwell,” he replied, opening the delicately carved bone box where he kept various coins.  He selected one of higher value and returned to the elf, which shook its head and hid its hands behind its back when he offered it the coin.  
            “Bakhshesh, to help the other get well,” he explained.  “For medicine, better food and blankets.”  The elf’s lips, which had been pressed into thin straight line, began to tremble.  He sighed.  “For opium, then, to ease their passing, and a linen shroud.  Take it.”  
            The elf’s hands shook as it took the coin from him.  _Serve now?_ it signed.  
            “Yes.”  He hesitated and then signed the phrase he’d learned all too well from the various elves who had attended to him over the years: _We are all lessened by this loss_.  
            The elf blinked slowly before hesitantly signing its response.  _Thousand thanks_.  It salaamed to him and then vanished, presumably to get their meal.  
            “You actually talk to them?” Tārā asked.  
            “As much as one can, I suppose,” he shrugged, sliding a speculative glance towards her.  “It’s a little cold in here; will you light the brazier?”  
            Her jaw tightened.  “Yes, of course, Effendi,” she murmured as she drew her blade with a practiced roll of her wrist and moved towards the brazier.  He studied her every movement dispassionately; she moved with exaggerated care, self-conscious under his stare, as she struggled to cast the spell.  Eventually the fire-stones glowed warm orange and she sighed with relief.  
            “Is that the best you can do?” he asked, flicking his eyes towards the glowing stones.  Her casting was unimpressive; he wasn’t sure how to interpret that shortcoming.  
            “Usually I do much better, but I can’t right now,” she murmured, shoulders rolling inward and defensive.  “I’m too tired and not strong enough, yet.”  
            “Magical ability is separate and distinct from physical strength and endurance,” he lectured softly as he circled over to the brazier.  He fed her magic with his own, without bothering to draw his blade, until the stones glowed blue-white from the heat.  “An Assassin’s ability to cast is one of the things that keeps us alive when contracts go wrong.  You should be able to draw an impermeable barrier, even when gravely injured, if you want to survive.”  
            “Yes, Effendi.”  
            He tilted his head and studied her thoughtfully.  “Have I offended you?”  
            “It is not a student’s place to be offended, Effendi,” she replied carefully, watching him from the corner of her eye.  
            “No, it is not,” he agreed.  “But that was only meant as a question; it was not a test.  You may answer.”  
            “Why are you going out of your way to be kind to me?” she asked.  “You don’t know me.  What do you hope to gain?”  
            “That was not an answer,” he observed dryly as the elves appeared to serve their meal.  He motioned for her to precede him to the table; her back was stiff and shoulders artificially level as she obeyed.  
            He _had_ gone out of his way for her, more so than she even realized.  In addition to his attention to the furnishings in her room, after reading her file he’d consulted a medic before outlining a preliminary training schedule and spoken to the kitchen elves to make sure her dietary needs and restrictions were met and understood.  Tārā was vegetarian, as her brother Viaan had been; he remembered Viaan’s frustration with the limited foodstuff available to him while he had been at Alamūt.  He’d even taken special care with the meal they were about to consume; looking after her was the only thing left he could do for Viaan.  
            “Neither was that,” she replied, stilted and awkward as she sat at the table.  She didn’t ask for help and he didn’t offer; he’d been injurious enough to her pride already and the evening wasn’t finished yet.  “My apologies.  It is not my place to speak to you like that.”  
            “No, it is not,” he agreed calmly.  “But I am inclined to overlook a certain amount of impropriety on your part this evening, in light of recent circumstances.  I can only imagine how trying the last several weeks have been for you.”  
            “Thank you, Effendi, for your understanding.  I am not entirely myself this evening,” she replied stiffly, addressing the table.  He shrugged off her apology as he took his seat.  
            “I’m sure the coming weeks will afford us both ample time to become familiar with one another.”  He watched her stiffen at what he had intended to be a conciliatory response and wondered why.  The silence stretched between them.  
            “What is it that you want from me?” she asked softly, finally raising her eyes to his.  
            “What I would want for my own sister, were she in your position: peace; some measure of happiness.  A life worthy of the word,” he replied, returning her unwavering gaze.  “I imagine Viann would have also wanted this; he must have loved you very much to have carried on that shameful charade.”  
            “It is not unheard of for a Master to take a lover from among their students,” she said, a faintly defensive edge to her voice.  
            “It is a betrayal of our duty, of the trust and responsibility accorded to a Master for their student’s wellbeing,” he retorted.  “It is an abuse of power and those who would do so are unworthy to bear the Ferrymen’s Ring.”  He clenched his teeth and forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose, to reign in his temper, and ladled lentil soup into their bowls.  Tārā dropped her eyes to study the soup in front of her suspiciously.  
            “There is no meat in this,” he assured her calmly, abruptly changing the subject.  “I spoke with the kitchen elves this afternoon and our entire meal is vegetarian.  They are very careful here, to respect dietary restrictions,” he continued, nudging the basket of barley bread towards her and then serving himself.  “You should not face any difficulty in that respect, but please tell me straight away if you do and I will address it.”  
            “Thank you, Effendi,” she murmured, caution threaded through her voice.  He wondered why.  “Your lover, she will not become jealous of this attention to me?”  
            _Of course she’s concerned about that_.  He felt stupid for not realizing it sooner.  
            “There is no reason to worry about that here, with me.  Sirocco has never expressed jealousy; I’m not sure if it’s even something she feels,” he assured her.  He regretted introducing the subject of lovers, giving her an easy opening to ask uncomfortable questions about his relationship with Sirocco.  “What was the purpose for your charade with Viaan?  What was he hoping to shield you from?” he asked abruptly; there was no reason to allow the conversation to linger over a topic he wished to avoid and he wanted answers about what had really befallen his friend, answers only Tārā – as a first hand witness – could give him.  
            “I don’t understand what you mean, Effendi,” she replied after a telling pause.  “This soup is quite good.”  He watched her breathing and pulse quicken with his second sight.  
            “It is,” he agreed.  “Have some barley bread,” he added, again pushing the basket towards her.  “It’s best when it’s fresh from the ovens.”  
            “Yes, thank you.”  Her hand was steady as she took a piece of the proffered bread; she avoided meeting his eyes.  She made no move to eat it.  
            “Who was your lover, then?  The one Viaan was trying to help you hide?” he asked, tone tempered calm and pleasant, casually concerned; his mother would have been proud.  He watched her grip tighten on the roll in her hand as the silence billowed between them, the soft bread swelling up between her fingers.  
            “It is over and past and cannot be undone.  Are you demanding these answers to be cruel?” she responded softly.  “To punish me?  What insight is there for you to gain from my shame and pain?”  
            “I am asking because I want to know what my friend died for,” he replied, the grief he’d suppressed boiling up to roughen his voice.  “I thought you would prefer that I seek answers from you, rather than involve anyone else, but I will, if I deem it necessary.”  
            “Is that why we’re having dinner together?  To afford you the opportunity to, _interrogate_ me?” she whispered.  
            “No.”  He brought a spoonful of soup to his lips and savored the flavor, the pain as it burned his mouth and throat.  “You are here with me tonight because Al Mualim ordered that it be so.”  
            “Why?”    
            Her nails, he noticed, were completely embedded in the bread she was holding.  
            “I did not ask; it is not my place to question Al Mualim’s command.  I hear and obey,” he added pointedly.  “Eat.  Your soup is getting cold.”  
            She jerkily brought a spoonful of soup to her lips, and then another.  “I took a lover; I knew better, but I was reckless and stubborn and it ended badly.  I thought I was in love, that we were in love, but sh-they didn’t feel the same.  I turned to Viaan for protection while I nursed my wounds and he put it out that we were lovers – because if that was the truth the other stories being circulated around about me were obviously false lies and malicious gossip.  And we were happy, living openly together, for the first time in our lives not having to act as mere acquaintances.  It was a convenient explanation for why we knew so many intimate details about each other – how we liked our tea, the names of childhood pets, favorite foods, songs…”  She audibly gulped down a spoonful of soup.  “All good things must come to an end.”  
            “Everything has a season,” he agreed as Augustine crawled into his lap.  “Did no one notice the resemblance between you?”  
            “If they noticed, they never said,” she shrugged.  “Have I answered enough of your questions, Effendi?”  
            “For now.”  
            He tore a piece of bread and soaked it in his soup, watched it wick up the fluid and become sodden.  It disintegrated against his tongue and he swallowed it easily.  He should probably tell her something, about himself, in return for the personal information she had, somewhat unwillingly, shared.  _Exchanging confidences fosters trust, Aquila_.  Tārā would hear whispers about Sirocco soon enough around Alamūt; he may as well tell her something about his relationship with the succubus himself.  He ate several more spoonfuls of soup while he considered what to tell the not-quite stranger sitting across from him.  He knew her training records, the contracts she’d taken and the injuries she’d suffered, that she had broken her arm at seven falling from a tree she had no business climbing, and that she had been poisoned two days before her scheduled trial to rise to Soldier.  He knew some of her secrets – about her actual relationship to Viaan, and perhaps another, intertwined with her brother’s death, that she had almost let slip moments before.  She knew nothing about him except his rank, and that he’d been friends with her brother.  Augustine grunted as he contorted into a more comfortable position in his lap.  
            “There is a lot of gossip here, in the fortress – the same as anywhere large groups of people live in daily proximity, I suppose – about my family, about me.”  He watched as she flicked her eyes up to his for a moment before looking away again.  
            “Are you asking me not to listen to it, Effendi?” she asked.  The bread she was still holding had been reduced to crushed and twisted clay in her hand; inedible.  
            He smiled wryly.  “I can hardly expect that; it is quite pervasive – so I’ve been told.  Sirocco is one of the Maraas,” he added baldly, and watched her eyes snap up to his with a flicker of amusement.  “We have been lovers for the last eight years.  I feel no desire for any other.”  
            “I see,” she said and slowly set the mangled bread down on the table.  “What is she?”  
            “A succubus.”  He ate more of his soup and allowed the silence to stretch.  After a long moment Tārā resumed eating as well.  He refiled both of their dishes, relieved she had apparently decided to let the subject drop.  Tārā took a piece of bread and then nudged the basket towards him.  
            “At what time am I to report for training tomorrow, Effendi?” she asked, tearing the roll in half.  
            “Tomorrow you report to the medics,” he replied, carefully selecting a roll.  “Once they’ve cleared you, come find me and we’ll work out where your skills are most in need of improvement and set an appropriate training schedule.”  
            “I’m fine, I assure you,” she insisted, strong brows sharply drawn down in a grimace she was trying to play off as a tight lipped smile.  
            “Then I’ll see that I have time tomorrow morning for your evaluation,” he calmly replied with the well-practiced quirk of his lips that passed for a smile.  “After the medics have cleared you.”  
            “Effendi-”  
            His eyes narrowed and she bit back the rest of her protest.  “This is not open to discussion.  It is a command, not a request.”  
            The muscles in her jaw jumped as she convulsively swallowed her protest.  “I hear and obey.”  
            “As well you should.”  He glanced towards the tea, trying to decide if he wanted any.  
            “Do you take sugar, Effendi?” she asked, having followed his gaze, as she righted one of the empty teacups the elf had brought with the tea service.  
            “Just one, thank you.”  
            Tārā dropped nuggets of crystallized date palm sugar into the cups, where they landed at the bottoms with a loud _plink_ before she carefully poured the tea.  She did an excellent job of controlling the exhausted tremor of her hands as she handed the teacup to him.  
            “Al Mualim told me that you were a very promising student before…” he hesitated, unsure what the socially proper phrasing was that he should use.  
            “Before the _incident_?” she supplied, tone tempered smooth and even.  He appreciated the effort behind her unconcerned façade.  “That was kind of him to say.”  
            “Yes, it was,” he agreed, taking a moment to blow on his tea.  “How much truth is there to it?”  
            “I believe Raj Viaan was satisfied with my progress.”  
            He cautiously sipped his tea while he considered her artfully constructed response.  The tea was hot, brewed almost bitter black and laced heavily with lemony verbena.  He rubbed the tender edges of his tongue against the inner rim of his teeth and his toes curled at the thought of how much more intense Sirocco’s kisses would feel against those sensitive burns.  The ache of his longing for her permeated him to the very marrow of his bones.  
            “Answer, answerless,” he observed approvingly.  “In that at least he has trained you well.”  
            “That is not the only way in which he trained me well,” she replied.  He should have cut her down for the defiant jut of her chin, reminded her of her place beneath him, but the determined spark in her eyes and stubborn set of her jaw momentarily reminded him so strongly of his fallen friend he couldn’t bring himself to snuff the resemblance.  
            “When you have finished your meal, I will escort you to your room,” he frostily informed her.  The tea tasted strongly of rosehips, to erase ugly pasts, vervaine, to obscure memories, and verbena, to leach the residual poison out of Tārā’s weakened body.  
            “My meal is finished, Effendi; I am ready at your leisure,” she said, tone tempered to convey only respect.  
            “Shall we go now then?  You look like you could use a good night’s rest,” he replied, easing his drowsing cat out of his lap.  Augustine raspily protested being disturbed; he quickly squelched the pang of guilt he felt at the sound.  
            Tārā followed him to the door and tried to take her bag from him when he slung it over his shoulder.  He preempted her protest with a hard look and she stayed silent as she trailed after him, her footsteps scraping unsteadily up the stairs.  _She does not look well_ , he noticed with a concerned frown as he held the door to her room open for her.  
            “Should I send for a medic?” he asked as he deposited her bag just inside the door.  He didn’t enter her room; it was now her personal space and she hadn’t invited him in.  
            “No.  Thank you, Effendi,” she replied as she looked around her room.  She would have said more but he didn’t give her the chance.  
            “Then I will take my leave.  Safety and peace be upon you.”  He had already turned away when she replied; he did not slacken his pace.  
            _I’ll have the elves look in on her later tonight, after they bring me Irika Viktrova’s file_.  He still had a long night ahead of him.


	15. Taline: dinner with Hiro

            “That’s a beautiful necklace.  Is it new?” Taghrid asked, motioning to the pendant that had swung free when Taline leaned forward to hand her the cup of tea she’d just poured.    
            “In a way,” she replied cautiously, catching hold of the pendant and tucking it back down her blouse.  They had put their students down for their midmorning nap, and the ones who weren’t already asleep were at least well enough behaved to pretend that they were.  She enjoyed tea breaks with Taghrid – the first, and so far only, actual friend she had made in her new life within the walls of Alamūt.  She took a careful sip of tea to buy more time to decide what she could safely say.  
            “What a mysterious answer,” Taghrid laughed, daintily lifting her teacup to her lips.  “Does it have some dark and unsavory past?  Did Ezio claim it as his prize after battling some villainous sheik?  Are you all right, Tali?  You’ve gone so pale,” Taghrid added anxiously as she hurriedly set down her tea.  
            She forced herself to smile, even though she suddenly felt sick.  “Yes, I’m fine.  My goodness, you have a fertile imagination.  Is that how you really think of me?”  
            Taghrid’s smile was a shade sheepish.  “You are the most glamorous person I know.  Your wealthy young husband – who is also, according to the gossips, _devastatingly_ handsome – dresses you like a European fashion plate and you’re positively enigmatic about your mysterious past.  I’m a little envious of you, to be honest; your stockings alone must have cost an absolute fortune, to say nothing of the furs, the suits, the sweater sets, all those day dresses and now that jewelry.  I bet your underthings are to die for – especially those – since lingerie is most men’s main interest when it comes to women’s clothing.  It’s almost vulgar how much he spends on you, you know,” Taghrid sighed.  
            Taline felt a blush beginning to heat her cheeks.  Taghrid had hit the mark perfectly with her surmise about her undergarments; the quality, and quantity, of lingerie Ezio had bought her was shocking.  The shop girls had been positively over the moon when they totaled up the sale.   
            “I’d trade my fine clothes in an instant for any sort of guarantee of a long, happy life with my husband,” she replied softly.  “I envy you that.  Ezio said he wants me to have lots of jewels in case anything ever happens to him, so he knows I’ll be provided for.”  
            Taghrid’s smile faded as her brow furrowed in sympathy.  “You’re right; I am lucky.  Andreu doesn’t make as much as a fidā'ī, but we’re provided for well enough and I’ll never have to face weeks of waiting for him to come home, wondering if I’ve already been made a widow.  It is a very beautiful necklace though.  At least I think it is, based on the brief glimpse I caught of it,” she gently teased.  
            Taline forced herself to return Taghrid’s smile as she drew the pendant out from under her blouse.  “My uncle sent it back with Ezio, from Armenia.  He wanted me to have it as a wedding present.”  
            It wasn’t, strictly speaking, really an untrue explanation, she reasoned as Taghrid leaned forward for a better look, exclaiming softly at the pendant’s beauty.  Ezio had told her that her uncle had singled out this necklace for him to give to her, that her uncle had wanted her to have it.  _He said he liked the idea of you wearing a necklace made for a pasha’s wife while you played on the floor with our children_.  Her uncle had also secreted a message for her within the stone, barely more than a flash of emotion, but it had been meant for her; no one else would have understood it or been able to feel it there.  The deeper magics were a strange thing, completely hidden, unless one knew the right way to see.  She wasn’t surprised Ezio hadn’t noticed when her uncle had done it, hadn’t felt its traces on the necklace; it was a message between Cathari, something only a blood relative could unlock.  Uncle Krikor had known about her, about her link to the Assassin who had come to kill him; he wanted her to know their entire family was gone, that he still loved her, and that he forgave her.  _And in my dying I am more alive than I have ever been.  Ai hai Lilitu_.  
            “It’s beautiful,” Taghrid breathed.  “It must be worth a fortune!”  
            “It was commissioned for the wife of a pasha, in Ottoman Turkey, maybe thirty years ago,” she said softly, repeating the old story her uncle had told her every time she came to see him in his shop.  He’d let her play with the jewels, play dress-up with the beautiful things he made.  She’d always wanted to hold this pendant and hear the story of her uncle’s flight from Van with the jewel safely hidden in his stomach, suspended down his throat from a piece of string tied to one of his teeth.  
            “Your uncle is a Turkish pasha?”  
            _Tell me the story, Uncle.  Please, tell me again_.  
            “No,” she said slowly.  “My uncle was the jeweler who made it.  He fled to Yerevan when he discovered that the pasha didn’t intend to pay him for the pendant.  This necklace was always on display in his shop.  I don’t know that it was even for sale; it was a symbol to him, I guess.”  
            “Why did he flee?” Taghrid asked.  “If the pasha wasn’t going to pay for the commission wasn’t he within his rights to keep it?”  
            “The Turks governed their Armenian subjects by _kırbaç_.  Uncle knew he couldn’t say no to the pasha, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of being cheated, so he took the pendant and left the country, with the pasha hot on his heels, the story goes.”  She could tell her smile looked forced.  “My parents eventually escaped to Yerevan as well.  My brothers … did not.”  
            Taghrid was silent for a long moment, her kind, plain face grave.  “Have you made plans to go visit your uncle?  I imagine he would like to see how lovely that necklace looks on you,” she said gently as she awkwardly picked up her tea.  
            “He died shortly after giving the necklace to Ezio.  I think he wanted me to have it because he knew he was going to die,” she replied, throat tight and eyes stinging.  It almost felt like lying even though what she said was the carefully constructed truth.  _I’m sorry Uncle_.  
            “I’m sorry for your loss,” Taghrid murmured.  
            “Can I have lunch with you?  Ezio will find me if I go to my usual places,” she blurted out into the spiraling silence that had fallen between them.  
            “Of course!  Why are you avoiding your husband?”  Taghrid looked concerned, gaze flicking down to the livid bruise wreathing her wrist.  There was an unspoken question in that brief glance that neither of them knew how to ask or answer.  
            “I invited his sister and her young man to dinner tonight, and only told him just this morning,” she hurriedly explained.  “I don’t think Mari’s told Ezio about her new boyfriend and I don’t want him asking me because I have no idea what to say; I don’t know anything about him, really, except that Mari’s been seeing him and he’s fidā'ī.”  
            “Surely she must have shared _something_ about him when she told you she was seeing someone,” Taghrid exclaimed.  “She can’t have just said ‘I’m seeing this person,’ did she?”  
            “Mari didn’t _tell_ me about her boyfriend,” she replied awkwardly, embarrassed and a little uneasy at sharing something that wasn’t really her secret to tell.  “I came across them when they were together, _alone_ , in the Garden.”  
            “Oh.”  Taghrid’s eyes widened in understanding.  “Was it a-” she coughed delicately with embarrassment, “terribly, um, _compromising_ , situation?”  
            “It was well on its way,” she sighed grimly.  _Damn it Mari_.  She wished her sister-in-law hadn’t put her in such an uncomfortable position.  “I asked them to dinner to force her to tell Ezio about her boyfriend.”  
            “Surely she didn’t expect you to not tell your husband what you saw?”  She sighed at Taline’s speaking look.  “I think she’s _trying_ to sabotage your marriage sometimes, Tali.  What could she possibly hope to gain from driving a wedge between you and her brother?”  
            “Who knows?” she sighed with a helpless flap of her hands.  “I just know she doesn’t like me – she hasn’t been the least bit subtle about that since Ezio’s been away – and she doesn’t think I’m good enough to be a part of her family; she hasn’t been subtle about _that_ either.”  
            “How poisonous.”  Taghrid shivered.  “I’ll remind myself about your sister-in-law next time I start getting envious of your clothes; my in-laws are loving, wonderful people.  I’m so very lucky.”  
            “You really are.”  She smiled tightly.  “Ezio hasn’t said anything about taking me to meet his relatives back in Italy.”  
            “We should bake something to cheer you up and have rosewater ice cream for lunch,” Taghrid replied.  “You can have as much as you want, I won’t judge you, but you have to promise not to say anything to Andreu; I’m supposed to be eating healthier.”  
            She actually laughed at that, much to her surprise, and felt a weight lift from her shoulders.  “Not a word,” she promised with a smile.  


            Taghrid lived with her husband in a charming townhouse in a little neighborhood near the fortress’ imposing outer walls.  The yard was small and neat with carefully trimmed herbaceous borders enclosing dormant raised flowerbeds, overlooked by a wicker bench wide enough to seat two people on the porch.  She found the interior of Taghrid’s home was equally inviting, with mismatched handed-down furniture and wooly-soft sheepskin rugs.  They had a wonderful time eating ice cream and baking simple tea cakes, laughing and gossiping together.  
            “I can’t believe you don’t know how to bake,” Taghrid had said, shaking her head with a bemused smile as she put the final tray of cakes into the oven.  The rest of the already baked cakes were cooling on racks placed on the other counter, waiting to be iced, their fragrant steam fogging up the kitchen windows.  “You learned geometry and physics, but not how to measure flour.  How did you eat?”  
            “They fed us at the cabaret,” she laughed and leaned her hip against the counter.  “And I moved around a lot before that.  A tribe of Roma took me in, for a time, when I was first on my own.”  
            “It that really true?” Taghrid asked with a wide, delighted smile.  “No, don’t tell me.  I can just see you in a bright patchwork skirt, arms and ankles loaded with bangles and bells and fingers clanking with gold rings, dancing for coins on the street.  Tell me you had a little pet goat too.”  
            She scrunched her nose.  “Sadly no pet goat, and the bracelets were cheap brass that turned my skin green if I wore them too long, but I did have a bright patchwork skirt and I did knife dances.”  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth mischievously and threw a pinch of flour at her friend.  “And I got frightfully good at picking pockets.”  
            “You didn’t!”   
            “I did,” she gurgled.  “I can empty a man’s pocket with a smile.”  
            “Let’s do this again, have lunch together, I mean,” Taghrid said when it was time for her to leave.  “I’ll teach you how to be less hopeless in the kitchen, and you can teach me how to pick pockets.”  
            “Deal,” she agreed.  “Let’s make it soon, before Ezio has a chance to figure out he married a woman who can’t cook.”  They had both laughed at that.  
            Her lessons were less tightly structured than usual that afternoon; her math students noticed, the Turkish class did not.  


            “Where were you, mogliettina?” Ezio demanded as soon as she came through the door.  “I looked all over for you at noon.”  He roughly pulled her against himself and forced her head back to an almost painfully awkward angle to kiss her.  
            “I was with Taghrid.  We had lunch and baked little cakes.  It was nice.”  She tried to squirm out of his arms as he pulled up her skirt.  “Ezio, please, we have guests arriving soon.”  He already had a hand down his trousers and she whimpered with fear.  _Please, please don’t force me_.  
            “Hey, mogliettina, it’s okay,” he soothed.  “Let me kiss your breasts while I pleasure myself, since I can’t have your sweet figa?  Please, Taline?”  
            “Just kissing?  Not… no _penetration_?” she hesitated, nervously scraping her teeth across her bottom lip; his eyes dilated and her breath caught.  She hurriedly unbuttoned her blouse.  “The hekim said, I’m not ready for that yet, varpet.  I need more time to heal before we can start trying again.”  
            “Just kissing and touching for now, mogliettina,” he promised as he unfastened his trousers and settled on the couch.  “Come here.”  
            She hesitantly approached and pulled the filmy lace cups of her brassiere down, smiling shyly at the appreciative expression on his face.  
            “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, hungrily kissing her breasts as he stroked himself.  She hummed and cradled his head in her arms, trying not to wince as the stubble beginning to darken his jaw scraped her sensitive skin like sandpaper.  “Mi permetta di fare una cosa spagnola, mogliettina?” he begged, nipping at her.  Her nipple scraped between his teeth when she startled at the sound of someone knocking on their door.  
            “They’re here,” she gasped, trying to cover herself.  “Please, we have to stop and see to our guests.”  
            “Let them wait,” he panted, breath hot against her skin.  “Be a good mogliettina and take care of your husband’s needs, Taline.”  
            “Ezio-” she protested.  Someone knocked on the door again, more forcefully this time, and she could hear her sister-in-law swearing in Italian.  
            “Apetta un minuto,” Ezio shouted towards the door before turning back to her.  “I’m really close; I need your help.”  
            “Ezio-” she managed to gasp before the remainder of her protest was muffled by his hungry mouth as he guided her hand to his member, hips straining up towards her; it was burning hot beneath her fingers, sticky with precum and sweat.  It twitched at her touch and he whimpered as he dug his fingers through her hair to grip her skull, pulling her closer and crushing his lips against her throat, her collar bone, the swell of her breast.  He came almost immediately at the touch of her magic, as promised, twisting his fingers in her hair and sobbing her name.  He kissed her aggressively afterwards, a staggering blitzkrieg of lips and tongue and teeth.  
            “Go to our bedroom and make yourself presentable, mogliettina – I’ve made a mess of your hair – and I’ll greet our guests and keep them entertained until you can join us,” he said in a rush, still breathless from crying out as he came.  
            He kissed her again, hard and deep, before shoving her towards their bedroom and striding towards the door to their chambers, cleaning himself up as he went.  She hesitated a scant moment, uncertain about leaving him with their guests unsupervised, before she remembered her en deshabille state and dashed into their bedroom just as she heard Ezio greeting his sister.  She closed the door behind herself and pressed her back against it, using the feeling of the cold wood against her spine to ground herself as she caught her breath.  She distractedly touched her lips and then jolted with surprise at the traces of blood she saw on her fingertips.  Either his teeth or hers must have broken her skin.  The cold air stung the fresh abrasions on her breasts and her cheeks were wet before she even realized she’d started crying.  
            _Stop it.  Stop crying_.  
            She forced herself to stand and walk towards the mirror over their dresser, stopping at the wardrobe to select a fresh shirtdress.  She wearily dropped the dress she had been wearing to the floor – _I’ll pick it up later_ – and put the fresh dress on – rust and black herringbone plaid, cut on the bias with a chic, gently flared skirt.  She checked that there weren’t any runs or snags in her stockings and that the back seams were perfectly straight before changing from her more practical day shoes to high, black patent heels.  The pins clattered loudly on the dresser top as she pulled them from the ruins of her upswept hair.  She smoothed her hair back from her face and secured it with two delicate wrapped-wire and pearl combs.  Her hands were steady as she winged her eyeliner and carefully applied matte brick-red color to her lips.  Ezio’s signature was just barely visible in the open neck of her dress and the diamond pendant glinted between her breasts.  She surveyed her reflection in the mirror with grim satisfaction.  _And in my dying I am more alive than I have ever been._   She exhaled slowly and turned towards the main room of their assigned quarters.  


            “Mari tells me you used to dance for the cabaret in town,” Hiro said, nudging the bone from his veal shank across his emptied plate with the tines of his fork.    
            The visit had gotten off to a rocky start – she wasn’t sure who had soured the initial introductions before she came out of their bedchambers, but it was clear that someone had – and, unfortunately, things had continued in that vein throughout the meal.  She’d asked the elves to prepare a special dinner for that evening, _something Italian_ she’d told them.  Ezio and Mari had identified it as _ossibuchi alla Toscana_ – it was the only thing they had agreed over so far all evening as they drank glass after glass of khundzori oghi, in addition to the red Bordeaux wine she’d ordered to compliment the meal.  
            “Yes,” she quickly answered Hiro, before Ezio or Mari had a chance to use Hiro’s politely intended question to resume bickering in Italian.  “I used to dance at the cabaret.  Some people seem to hold very uninformed opinions about dancers in general, and those who work in cabarets in particular, but I’ve always thought prejudice is its own punishment.  Anyway, to answer your question about the cabaret, it was fun, in a way – there were so many different types of people who worked there – and I enjoyed my time there, but I’m much happier here, with Ezio.”  She rubbed her husband’s thigh affectionately, hoping to draw his attention away from scowling at his sister.  He slid an arm around her waist and nestled her more closely against him, sparing her a quick glance and an indolent smile before Mari drew his attention away with another sharp burst of Italian.  She bit back a sigh and looked to Hiro, who also didn’t speak Italian; he looked every bit as bored, frustrated and annoyed as she felt.  
            “Mari, please-” he protested before Mari silenced him with a staying gesture as she argued with her brother.  He shot a quick, beseeching look towards Taline and then promptly hid behind taking a sip of wine when Ezio glowered in his direction.  
            She glanced between Ezio and Mari and slipped her fingers inside her dress to trace her marriage scar, focusing and tuning her magic to that of the scar, in an attempt to distract him.  He hauled her into his lap after a moment and her stomach clenched at the feeling of him hardened beneath her.  
            “Varpet, please,” she whispered in his ear.  “Fight with Mari later.  Please don’t take it out on me and our guest because you’re angry with her.”  
            “You’re right.  I’m sorry, mogliettina,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against her temple.  “Please forgive me,” he continued, addressing Hiro.  “It seems Maria and I have forgotten our manners.”  Mari flushed at the rebuke and grabbed her boyfriend’s hand beneath the table – enough of the gesture was visible for them to surmise what she was doing.  Ezio’s expression hardened slightly at the implied familiarity.  Taline wryly noted the hypocrisy of his disapproval as she tried to unobtrusively settle into a more comfortable position on his lap.  
            “Of course, Effendi,” Hiro immediately responded, seemingly eager to smooth things over.  “You’ve only just returned from a long contract; I imagine you still have a lot of catching up to do with your family.  It is an honor to have been invited to join you for this meal.”  
            “Speaking of,” Mari hummed, lips curving into practiced, charming smile as she drove a less than subtle elbow into her boyfriend’s side.  “Did you bring me back anything, Bello?”  
            “No.”  Ezio softened the word with a stunning smile of his own.  “You’re all grown up and taking contracts of your own, un’asina.  You can get yourself pretty baubles.  Or, better yet, get them from your swain.”  
            Taline stiffened, stomach lurching dangerously at the way the Assassins acted as though her husband had just returned from a tedious business trip.  The pasha’s pendant felt heavy between her breasts.  _Presents looted from the_ _dead_.  She shivered.  
            “My contracts so far haven’t had many opportunities for plunder, but I’ll do the best I can with what I’m given,” Hiro smiled, sliding an arm around Mari’s shoulders.  She noted Mari’s split second hesitation before she leaned into the embrace and leveled a challenging smile at her brother.  
            Ezio raised a brow and commented in Italian.  Mari responded in the same language, tone sweetly overdone.  Taline instinctively shrank away from the honeyed venom in her sister-in-law’s voice; she’d quickly learned to dread that particular tone.  Ezio noticed her reaction.  
            “Should I warn Mother to expect another _hastily drafted_ marriage contract?” he asked sardonically, switching back to Arabic, and Mari blushed a painful, fiery red.  “It seems likely to become a family tradition, especially for people named Maria.”  She almost reproved him before she remembered the many unnecessarily unkind things Mari had said to her while he was away and held her tongue.  
            “Of course not!” Hiro blustered, cheeks heating.  “Pre-marital sex is a sin.”  
            _A bit too much protest_ , she thought as she studied the couple seated across the table, halfheartedly looking for a point of access to their thoughts.  Mari was closed off, but she could almost taste the guilt and frustration rolling off of Hiro.  He must have felt her skimming the edges because he shot her a very suspicious look and fortified his mental barriers.  If she had to guess, she’d bet that Mari had tasted more pleasure than she’d given while canoodling with her boyfriend.  _But he’s possibly not her only lover.  She feels guilty about something_.  She mentally filed the observation away; she’d come back to it later, when she had more time for contemplation, and puzzle over it then.   
            Ezio harrumphed derisively.  “You won’t last long as a fidā'ī, not with those _quaint_ morals,” he commented dryly.  “Especially since just about everything we do is a sin.  Maybe you should take up carpentry instead.”  
            “Ezio,” she scolded softly.  “ _Be nice_.”  
            “I am,” he retorted.  
            It was Mari’s turn to harrumph derisively into her glass of khundzori oghi.  Hiro’s smile was starting to look strained.  She wished she had thought to insist that Ezio and Mari not drink hard alcohol with their meal and was sorely tempted to plead a headache so she could retreat to their bedroom, but her uneasiness at leaving Ezio alone with his sister prevented her from doing so.  _I should at least wait until after dessert_.  Fortuitously the elves arrived to clear the table.  
            “I take it your contract went well,” Mari commented inanely.  “Dinner seems to be an expensive affair.”  
            Ezio knocked back the remainder of the oghi in his glass before replying.  “I wasn’t lacking for money before that contract, you know.”  He tapped his blade against their glasses to refill them and her stomach twisted; Ezio’s drinking made her nervous.  “Taline planned tonight’s meal; all the credit should go to her.”  
            “It was a truly excellent meal, Khanum,” Hiro said quickly as his arm around Mari momentarily tightened.  “I haven’t eaten so well in months, at least.  Wouldn’t you agree, Mari?” he forcefully added.  
            She decided to interpret Hiro’s unsubtly prompting Mari as an indication of how frayed his composure had become over the course of the evening.  Her own nerves were in complete sympathy.  
            “Oh yes, my brother’s _mignotta_ has very good taste,” Mari replied sweetly as the elves served the dessert Taline had selected.  Ezio went suddenly, perfectly, still.  
            “Get out,” he said, whisper soft and venomous.  “And if you ever call her that again you’re dead to me, capisci?”  
            “Ezio,” Taline protested, turning to press her hands against his chest.  “Don’t.  You’ve both been drinking.  I’m sure she didn’t-”  
            “Capisci?” he repeated, louder, eyes narrowed and voice hardened.  
            “Yeah, capisco,” Mari bit out as she stood and shrugged off Hiro’s attempt to draw her back down beside him.  “We’re leaving.”  
            “Mari, please,” she pleaded.  “Stay.  Have dessert.  Let’s not end the evening like this, please?”  
            “I think my _loving_ brother has made it abundantly clear that my welcome is worn out,” Mari bit out, each word angrily flung over her shoulder.  
            “I’m just _overwhelmed_ by your _ladylike_ behavior,” Ezio shot back.  
            Mari turned and responded with an unfamiliar hand gesture that was _probably_ rude, at the very least.  
            Ezio’s pale-faced fury at the gesture frightened her and she instinctively clung to him with a soft, needy whimper, intended for his ears alone, to prevent him from going after his sister.  His arm around her waist tightened almost painfully, but he leaned back and picked up his glass of oghi.  
            “It was an honor to meet you both,” Hiro said with an apologetic wince before following after Mari as she stalked towards the door.  “Safety and peace.”  
            “Safety and peace,” Ezio grunted before taking a deep drink of oghi.  
            “What did you call her?” she heard Hiro hiss to Mari as they left.  The door closed behind them before she could overhear her sister-in-law’s response.  
            “Ezio-” she began reprovingly as he plunked his empty glass down on the table.  
            “She called you my whore,” he ground out, arm wrapped tightly around her waist.  “That’s what that word meant.  You’re not; you never were.  I can’t, I can’t let her talk like that about you, to you; she has to understand that.”  
            She sighed and nestled her cheek against his shoulder.  _What you’ve done is paint a target on my back_.  She gnawed on her bottom lip and slid an arm around his neck.   
            “Was she unkind to you while I was away?” he asked softly.  
            She cuddled closer, intentionally provoking his protective instincts, as she tried to decide how to answer.  “She didn’t have many opportunities; I didn’t see much of Mari while you were away,” she carefully replied.  It wasn’t _exactly_ untrue, but a more honest answer would have been: _she and I both did our best to avoid each other_.  
            “Maybe that was for the best, at least until she gets to know you better, mogliettina,” he murmured, nuzzling his face against hers and cradling her close.  
            She judiciously decided to remain silent; it seemed highly unlikely that Mari would make much of an effort to get to know her, much less amend her low opinion.  She stroked the backs of her fingers down the side of Ezio’s throat.  
            “How do you feel?” he asked gently.  “Maybe we could take a bath, together?”  
            “I don’t feel like a bath tonight,” she hummed.  It seemed highly unlikely that Ezio would be able, or willing, to resist forcing intercourse on her under those circumstances.  “But I’m happy to wash you, if you’d like?”  
            “Yeah?”  
            She smiled at his hopeful tone.  “If you’d like,” she repeated, lifting her head from his shoulder to study him from beneath her lashes.  “Shall we have dessert first, varpet?”  
            “The only dessert I have room for right now is the honey from between your thighs,” he smiled, sliding his hand up her skirt to nudge aside her underwear.  “You taste so good, mogliettina.”  
            “I’m still bloody, varpet,” she protested softly, catching hold of his wrist.  He sighed and dropped his head to her shoulder.  
            “So just washing then?” he asked resignedly, nuzzling into her neck.  
            “I’m sorry-”   
            “No, don’t be,” he hastily interrupted her, lifting his head to meet her eyes.  “I want you to get better; want you safe and healthy and happy, mogliettina.  I can wait.”  
            Her heart lodged in her throat at how earnest he sounded, like he _meant_ it – or really wanted to – the two were probably one and the same with him.  _He stood up to his sister for me_.  The pasha’s pendant was cold and heavy between her breasts as she watched him take another deep drink of oghi.  
            “Thank you,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his.  He surprised her by pulling away instead of leaning into the kiss, like she’d expected.  He studied her gravely for a long moment.  
            “Am I – are you happy?  Here, with, with me?” he asked, fumbling over the words slightly.  “Am I making you happy, Taline?”  
            “As happy as I ever thought I could be,” she assured him.  
            “Yeah?” he smiled at her.  “I hope so.  I want to make you happy, mogliettina.  So happy you’ll never want to leave me; you’ll always be waiting for me to come home.”  He kissed her and she wondered, again, why that particular fear seemed to haunt him.  
            _Did Cristina leave him, after she lost their baby?  Was there someone else who left while he was on contract?_   She slid her arms around his neck and cuddled into him.  
            “I’m not going anywhere, varpet,” she gently assured him.  _I have nowhere else to go.  Nowhere to run where your Order couldn’t find me._   Her blood ran cold at the thought.    
            “We’ll need to get you out of those clothes, if I’m going to bathe you,” she chirped and started unbuttoning his shirt.  Her husband vacillated between European-style clothing and the more Eastern-amalgam style favored by the Assassins of Alamūt; today it was his Italian clothing.  
            “Are you going to undress me, mogliettina?  You have such cunning little hands.”  The words were slightly slurred.  
            She bit her lip.  _Dark Mother, he’s drunker than I thought_.  
            “Of course, varpet,” she cooed as she slid his suspenders off his shoulders.  “It’s like unwrapping a present.”  His smile at her flattery was so beautiful it made her stomach flutter.  
            “Yeah?  Is it – is it a nice present?” he asked, pulling her body against his.  “Do you like me?”  
            “Very much,” she replied, artfully deflecting his attempts to grope her.  He was in a strange mood; it wasn’t that it was unusual for him to be demonstrative – she was used to _that_ by now – but there was a clinginess to it, and his repeatedly fishing for reassurance _was_ unusual – Ezio was generally happy to blithely assume that everything was just fine in her life since their marriage.  
            “Good,” he slurred.  “Because I _like_ you.  I like you very, _very_ much and I’d be so, so _sad_ , if you didn’t, like me too.”  
            “Of course I like you, silly,” she told him with a teasing smile.  “I married you, and I’d hardly do that with someone I didn’t like, now would I?”  
            “My parents _hated_ each other,” he said bluntly.  “I don’t know how Mari was even conceived, they hated each other _that much_.  I think, I think she was _glad_ when he died – my father – she was _gutted_ over Fredo.”  He gulped a shaky deep breath.  “Promise… promise we’ll never be like that.  Promise me, Taline?”  
            “Oh, Ezio.  I promise – of course I promise.  I could never be glad if something bad happened to you, varpet,” she murmured, hugging him tightly.  
            “You say that now-”  
            “And I’ll say it always,” she interrupted him gently.  “I’m not that sort of person; we’re not that sort of people.  If we make any mistakes, they will be our own, not the ones our parents made.”  
            “Yeah, mogliettina.  You’re right,” he mumbled, grip tightening on her thigh.  “We’ll make our own mistakes.”  The resigned dullness of his tone unsettled her.  
            “I’m going to draw your bath, varpet,” she murmured, sliding out of his lap.  She paused on her way to the bathroom to tip a measure of salt into each of the glasses of oghi on the table.  It probably wouldn’t stop him from drinking more, but at least it was something.  She could feel his gaze boring into her back as she walked from the room.  
            She twisted the taps and watched the water flow for a moment before she stopped the drain and got up to get the bath salts down off the shelf.  They were softly scented with hyssop – she’d noticed with most things related to cleanliness within the fortress of Alamūt were – and also, faintly, of rosemary.  She dumped a scoop of salts into the water and wondered what the Assassins’ preoccupation was with hyssop as she watched them dissolve.  She stood and dropped the jar in surprise when she turned towards the shelf and nearly collided with Ezio.  He deftly caught it.   
            _Maybe he’s not as drunk as I thought_.  
            “I’m sorry varpet, I didn’t hear you come in,” she apologetically murmured as she took the jar back from him and walked over to put it on the shelf.  He followed behind her, hands settling at her waist.  
            “You looked deep in thought,” he replied, leaning down to nip his teeth against her earlobe, breath hot and moist with alcohol against her skin.    
            Her toes curled against the insoles of her shoes.  _Apparently he’s back to feeling frisky_ , she noted grimly.  Her husband’s mood could careen wildly between extremes; it was starting to feel like the evening would never end.  
            “Were you thinking about me?”  
            “In part.”  She smiled as she turned to face him.  “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”  He was more of a hindrance than help in that endeavor, his attention focused on groping and kissing her, rather than undressing to bathe.  
            “Ezio,” she scolded as she detangled herself from his grasp and prodded him towards the tub.  “ _Please_.  I want to go to bed.”  
            “Yeah?”  That had gotten his attention.  “Want to go to bed with _me_ , mogliettina?”  
            “Of course with you,” she snapped, immediately regretting the brittleness of her tone when he noticed and avoided her eyes.  “Ezio-”  
            “May I please have the soap?” he interrupted her softly as he lowered himself into the tub.  
            “Ezio-”  
            “Please, Taline.”  He looked vulnerable, stripped of his humor and smiles.  
            She sighed and went to get a piece of soap and a fresh washrag from the shelf.  She couldn’t tell if she was making things better, or worse.  She was doing this intuitively, but blindly, and Ezio’s sometimes mercurial mood swings made it almost impossible to predict how he’d respond to her from one moment to another.  She heard the water slosh as he sank lower into the tub.  She stood over him for a moment and watched him stare at the surface of the bathwater, his unhappiness palpable, and she felt incredibly guilty.  She bent down and kissed his cheek as she soaked the rag in the bathwater.   
            “I can wash myself,” he mumbled, shrinking away from her touch.  “You’ve had a long day.  Go to bed, get some rest.”  
            “I want to wash you,” she insisted and pressed another kiss against his cheek.  She felt safest when Ezio was happy.  “You have a nice body.  I like touching it.”  
            He didn’t respond, but she felt him relax a bit, lean back towards her.  He was unresisting, compliant, as she washed his chest and back, as she scrubbed his shoulders and massaged her soapy hands up his legs.  His cheeks were wet with stray tears when she kissed him.  
            “What’s wrong, varpet,” she asked, startled by the depth of his sudden unhappiness.  
            He shook his head and hid his face against her neck.  
            “Come to bed-”  
            “I’ll sleep on the couch.  Let you get your rest so you get better, mogliettina.”   
            She was almost tempted to take him up on the offer, but _something_ about his tone, his body language, unsettled her.  Her skin prickled with warning.  _He wouldn’t try to harm himself, would he?_   The fact that she didn’t have a ready answer to that question frightened her.  She so badly wanted to like her new husband, for them to be happy together.  _I don’t want to be a young widow_.  
            “No, come to bed,” she insisted.  “I’ll be cold without you to keep me warm.  Come to bed and I’ll give you a minet,” she coaxed and craned her neck to kiss his lips.  
            “What’s that?” he asked, nuzzling his face against hers.  
            “Come to bed and see.”  She pulled the plug and then straightened and pressed her palm against the canister of clean water beside the tub, channeling her magic into warming the water inside.  He joined her while she was brushing her teeth at the sink, the whiteness of the towel wrapped securely around his hips contrasting against the winter-pale caramel of his skin.  She studied the trail of coarse hairs down his remarkably flat abdomen, the pelt of carefully trimmed hair across his broad chest, from the corner of her eye as she spit and rinsed her mouth and toothbrush.  _My husband_.  
            “What happened here?” she asked, brushing her fingers over a ropy contracted scar on the side of his thigh, the edge of which was visible beneath his towel.  
            “Fiendfyre.  I was seventeen.”  
            She knelt beside his feet and eased the towel up to trace the borders of the scarred tissue; he shifted his weight, but allowed the contact.  
            “It must have hurt horribly,” she murmured, smoothing her hand down the length of the scar.  
            “Yeah,” he rasped.  “It did.  The Master I was with, Micheletto Baglioni, he got me out in time, but wasn’t so lucky himself; he went back in to close the contract and never came back out.”  
            She bit the edge of her lip and stroked her fingertips along the scar, unsure how exactly she was supposed to respond.  That Ezio could be so cavalier about death and violence sometimes frightened her.  The towel around his hips twitched as he hardened from her touch; he averted his face when she noticed and shifted his hips away from her.  
            “I’m sorry,” he rasped.  “You make me so allupato.  I should-”  
            “Take me to bed,” she interrupted smoothly.  “I want you to hold me.  Please, Ezio.  I need you.”  
            “Yeah?”  He turned towards her and his towel dropped; he made no move to pick it up.  “You still want me?  
            “Yes, of course I still want you,” she murmured, careful to keep the impatience from creeping into her tone.  “You’re my varpet; I’ll always want you.”  His posture stiffened at her words and she nervously wondered what she had said wrong.  
            “Why do you call me that?  What does it mean?” he asked.  
            “Varpet?”  She extended her hand to him for help up as she tried to decide how to explain herself.  He pulled her to her feet but didn’t release her hand; his other hand settled at her waist.  She stepped closer to him and saw the brief hesitation in his eyes as he considered stepping back.  It was a frustrating reminder of how little they actually knew one another.  
            “It means ‘master,’ which is what you are: both a Master of your Order, and of me, as my husband.  A master by your own choice-” she hesitated “-and by my choice as well.  What does ‘mogliettina’ mean?”  
            “Wife.  Little wife,” he amended.  “For how small and delicate you are.”  
            She hesitated a moment and then slipped her arms around his waist.  “I am your wife, and I am small, but I’m not fragile.”  She looked up at him.  The pasha’s pendant was cold and heavy between her breasts.  _I’m sorry, Uncle_.    
            “Take me to bed, varpet.  It’s cold and I’m tired and we’ve both had a long day.”  
            “Yes, mogliettina.”  
            He lifted her like she weighed nothing.  He cuddled her against himself under the covers, wrapping his body around hers.  She imagined how it would feel to snuggle with him while her belly swelled with his child and her throat suddenly closed with grief.  
            “What’s wrong, Taline?” he mumbled sleepily against her cheek.  
            “I, I might have started showing soon, if I hadn’t-”  
            “No, no, none of that,” he soothed.  “In a few weeks, when you’re well again, I’ll plant another child in you and we’ll take care of it together, okay?”  His kisses were sweetly hesitant, needy and vulnerable; she felt remarkably safe in his arms.  
            “Okay.”  
            He fell asleep before she did.


	16. Cristina: winter solstice

            The rim of the glass knocked against her front teeth with a cringe-inducing _plink_ of crystal on enamel, but she was several glasses past cringing at this point and it’s not that the grappa she was drinking suddenly tasted _good_ , or anything, maybe just less caustic.  Her teeth felt filmy and the brandy no longer burned her throat as she swallowed.  The logical part of her brain, distant and rapidly fading, told her that she was probably very drunk and that she should stop drinking soon if she wanted to avoid unpleasant consequences; also, that the bottle was two-thirds emptier than it had been when she started.  
            _Ezio’s bottle of grappa_.  
            She fumbled for her wand, blinked back her guilt, and managed to cast the refilling charm on her fourth try.  It took an alarming amount of concentration to enunciate the incantation correctly, but it worked.  She squinted at the bottle suspiciously; the color of the liquor looked a little off.  She sighed and recorked the bottle, halfheartedly ramming the cork down with her palm, and picked up Mari’s letter.  She had been surprised to receive a letter from Ezio’s sister, even more so that it wasn’t a howler – _do Assassins even send howlers?_ – and had opened it with excessive caution.  The lack of hexes and chatty tone initially had seemed almost suspicious, but she’d reread it so many times since its arrival she could hardly remember why she’d been so apprehensive of it in the first place.

 _“– Mother sent him here to recover.  It’s nice having him around, when he’s actually here.  He’s been away on a contract for almost a month now.  I guess he’s trying to stay busy.  He doesn’t blame you, just so you know –_ ”

            She drew a slow, shaky, breath and closed her eyes as she waited for the room to stay still.  
            _Ezio…_   
            It hurt to think about him – his bright smile and the laughter dancing in his eyes when he came to see her after a prolonged absence, his softer, warmer smile while she told him about the latest book she was reading, and his sleepy-shy smile first thing in the morning when he woke up beside her.  He had always seemed to be smiling, or hovering on the edge of one; she missed that about him.  By contrast, Jacopo, who had already replaced her with someone else, had rarely smiled, and when he did, it looked fake, and forced.  She picked up Mari’s letter up again.

_“– He’s taken up with some lost girl he found in a cabaret.  She’s shy and quiet (honestly, I think it’s because her Arabic isn’t that great.  She talks like a half-witted guttersnipe) and of course she doesn’t speak a word of Italian.  He says she’s crazy good at math, but how would he know?  He barely even knew her last name before he brought her back to the fortress!  They’re not even properly married, like by the Church, just a hastily written contract, not even witnessed by a priest –”_

            She raked her hands through her hair and took another drink of grappa.  Her lungs hurt and she felt lightheaded and she wondered when she’d somehow forgotten how to breathe properly.  
            _He’s married, he’s married, he’s married, he’s married…_   The words cycled endlessly through her head, roaring white noise and serrated sharp static, endlessly echoing through all the parts of her losing him had left empty.  She closed her eyes and saw him again, that last time he’d been in the kitchen with her, standing just on the other side of the table she was sitting at now.  He’d greeted her with a soft, open-mouthed kiss, eager to take her to bed, to make unhurried love until they were both sated and sleepy and spent, but she was still cramping from the abortion and he hadn’t understood why when she pushed him away, told him no.  He’d gotten worried when she told him she was bleeding, immediately wanted to take her to a doctor, and she felt even guiltier for lying to him, cheating on him, and that she was about to leave him.  Then he had asked about the baby he wasn’t supposed to know about.  And something inside her had just snapped and every ugly, hurtful thing she’d ever thought over the six years they had known each other, and some she’d never even thought before that moment, came pouring out of her mouth in a river of vitriol and venom.  Once she started she couldn’t stop, and she felt ashamed at the memory of how good it had felt to finally let it all out, like the lightness and relief that she had always felt following the sacrament of confession.  
            Ezio hadn’t reacted like she’d expected.  He didn’t get angry.  He didn’t fight back.  He’d hardly even spoken at all.  
            _Why?_ he had finally asked.  _Why would you do this?  Why are you saying these things?  
_             _You want to know why? Maybe you should ask why I've never taken you to meet my parents.  How could I tell them what you do?  What your family does – what your family is?  How can I expect them to accept that my future mother-in-law is the madam of one of the most notorious brothels in Roma?  That my future husband kills people for a living?  Your family isn’t even Italian, not really.  My parents deserve better.  I deserve better than the burden of a bastard child holding me back from the life I want for myself, for my family_.  _You’re sweet, and we’ve had some good times together, but I don’t want to be part of your world.  
_             And she remembered the light going out of his eyes, all his varied, beautiful smiles gone in a half-second magnesium flash.  She recalled, with appallingly perfect clarity, the moment she watched his soul die and he became a ghost of the man she’d known, with empty, haunting eyes.  He left without another word, soundlessly as smoke.  
            She heard he’d tried to drown himself, in the Tevere, a few days later from some of the older women waiting in line at the baker’s, and the ruby ring he’d left on her kitchen table felt cold and heavy on her finger.  She distractedly rubbed the pads of her fingers over the three stone setting; she still hadn’t taken it off.  Rosa had stopped commenting on that after the first month or so.  
            She kept waiting for the hurt to fade, for time to heal her self-inflicted wounds.  The pain wasn’t fading; if anything, it was only getting worse.  She thought about Ezio all the time, constantly surrounded by places and objects that evoked memories of him.  The wilting flowers on the windowsill were in a vase he’d bought her for her twenty-third birthday.  The scorch mark on the edge of the kitchen table had happened the first time he’d tried to help her make pasta pomodoro.  They’d made love countless times on the couch in the living room.  She would play with his hair while they listened to the wireless in the evenings, and they had sat on the fire escape drinking glasses of wine while watching the sun set.  Rosa used to beat him mercilessly at backgammon, the board set up on their bedroom floor, while the four of them drank Strega and laughed late into the night.  Their first date had been at the movie house she walked past on her way to and from work every day.  He used to meet her for walks in the small garden next to the library during her lunch break.  The florist where he’d always bought her flowers was next to the deli where she liked to pick up dinner on her way home from work for herself and Rosa when it was her turn to cook.  Memories of him were everywhere.  
            “Cristina!  What are you doing sitting alone in the dark?” Rosa exclaimed as she exploded into the kitchen in a swirl of navy skirts and flung her gloves in the general direction of the counter, her precariously upswept hair was positively bristling with the multitude of pins she’d used to subdue it.  Her Austrian boyfriend, Karl, trailed in after her, the collar of his coat still turned up against the cold, which somehow made him look _extra_ Aryan.  He took Rosa’s coat – before she had a chance to fling it towards the coat stand in the hallway – and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs before doing the same with his own.  It was nice to have help picking up after Rosa sometimes.  
            “Thinking,” she murmured defensively, clumsily pushing her glasses back up her nose.  
            “Drinking, is more like,” Karl observed wryly as he picked up the bottle of grappa, uncorked it, and took a cautious sniff.  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed as he recoiled from the smell of the liquor.  “You haven’t been _drinking_ this, have you?  Are you _trying_ to make yourself go blind?”  
            Rosa glanced over her shoulder at her with a concerned frown as she closed the heavy blackout curtains on the kitchen windows.  A coil of hair had slipped loose from its pins and hung down her back, swaying between her shoulder blades.  “Has something happened?” she asked cautiously.  
            She shrugged and fidgeted with her mostly empty glass.  The logical part of her brain pointed out that it was supremely pathetic to be moping and drowning her sorrows alone in a dark room because the man whose heart she’d willfully broken was trying to move on with his life.  She glanced up when Rosa picked up Mari’s letter as Karl lit the lamps.  _Shit_.   
            “Mari Auditore?” Rosa frowned at Mari’s scrawled signature for a moment before pinning her with a suspicious look.  “Why is Ezio’s sister writing to you?”  
            She shrugged and avoided looking at either of the other people in the room.  “Habit, I guess?  I don’t think she has many friends.”  
            Karl cleared his throat pointedly.  “I’m going to take a piss, and then see what’s playing on wizarding wireless.”  He and Rosa exchanged a speaking look before he left the room.  He took the bottle of grappa with him.  
            “Surely she knows you and her brother broke up, right?” Rosa asked gently as she slid into the chair opposite hers.  “Has something else happened?”  
            “They sent him to the middle-of-nowhere-Iran, where his Mother’s from, and he _married_ someone,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.  Her next breath caught in her throat and she ripped her glasses off to rub her burning eyes.  “She’s probably some uneducated peasant girl.  Mari says he _found_ her in a cabaret.  My god, you know what they’re like over there.  He probably _bought_ her for a handful of silver and a goat,” she added with what was intended to be a disdainful laugh, but turned into a choking sob.  
            “Cristina-”  
            “I don’t care!  Really, I don’t,” she insisted, trying not to wince at how shrill she sounded.  “Good for him, moving on with his life-” she clawed her hair back from her face and sloppily rubbed at her cheeks.  “I hope he and whatever-her-name-is are happy together – at least until he gets bored and dumps her in his mother’s brothel.”  
            Rosa’s chair clattered backwards as she lunged around the table to hug her tightly.  “He can’t have stopped loving you that fast.  Mari must either be lying or mistaken-”  
            “No.  No, Rosa” she insisted.  “You weren’t here, you didn’t see his face.  I watched his soul die, saw the light leave his eyes.  The man who loved me isn’t there anymore.”  She pulled away from Rosa to wipe her eyes and smooth her hair.  
            “I don’t believe that,” Rosa replied, brows drawn down sharply with a frown.  “When you love someone as much as he loved you, it just doesn’t go away.”  
            “There’s something else, another reason.  It’s in Mari’s letter.”  She drew a slow breath and pressed her palms against the smooth, cool surface of the table top.  “Do you remember when we went to his family’s estate in Lucca a couple years ago?”  
            “Yeah.”  Rosa leaned her hip against the edge of the table.  “For that big party.”  She shivered.  “Assassins sure are creepy.  It’s weird how almost _normal_ Ezio seemed after meeting more of them.”  
            “Thanks.”  
            Rosa winced.  I didn’t mean it like-”  
            “His cousin died.  Some time in August.  One of the ones we met at Villa Auditore,” she interrupted, inexplicably annoyed by Rosa’s unintentional slur against Ezio.  
            “The really creepy one?” Rosa asked.  “With the strange eyes?”  
            “No, the other one,” she replied, staring at Mari’s letter as it lay on the table.  “The nice one, with the missing arm and the family.  The one who was living in France.”  
            “Oh!” Rosa exclaimed.  “I remember him; the only one who didn’t jump out of his skin when you drew your wand.  He had the two little boys Ezio spent nearly the entire time playing with, right?”  
            She nodded.  “And a little girl lucky enough to not be there when it happened.”  
            “Christ Almighty,” Rosa breathed, eyes widening as she hurriedly crossed herself.  “Those poor children,”   
            “They died too.  And the wife.  An entire family, just…gone.”  She swallowed unsteadily and avoided Rosa’s eyes.  Somehow, she and Rosa had been lucky, so far – they hadn’t personally known anyone who’d died in either of the two wars raging across Europe; death had never come closer than a faceless friend-of-a-friend, until now.  


            The July weather was hot and dry, or at least as hot and dry as it ever got in Lucca.  Villa Auditore was an enormous house on an even more enormous estate.  Rosa had caught her eye and pointedly arched her thin brows at the scale of it.  Ezio had been apologetic when he met them at the station – she and Rosa would have to share a room, on the third floor; his grandmother had insisted.  She found out later, from Mari, that it was their mother who had insisted on the shared room on the third floor; their grandmother hadn’t wanted her and Rosa in the house at all.  The villa was already filled with people when they arrived, a cacophony of jarring languages was being spoken all around them – German she recognized, even if she didn’t speak it herself, pockets of French here and there, Italian, of course, and everywhere the strange rasping sound of Arabic being spoken in a variety of accents.  She had grabbed Rosa’s hand and they crept out a side door to explore the kitchen gardens in relative peace and quiet.  She felt overwhelmed by the number of people present – _it’s just a family party, to celebrate my elevation to Master_ , Ezio had said – which had left her feeling confused and hurt; she’d thought he’d told her about all his relatives by now, and he was supposed to introduce her to the rest of them properly at the party the next day.  
            She’d liked Malik – the eldest, and the only one of Ezio’s three cousins who seemed to speak any European languages.  He looked like Ezio’s mother – pale skin with dark hair and eyes – he shared Mari’s high, sharp cheekbones, and had a lighter version of Ezio’s build.  Her stomach had lurched when she noticed the empty end of his left sleeve neatly folded up and pinned near his shoulder.  Ezio had also made a point of introducing her to his other two cousins, a brother and sister who looked nothing alike and hardly spoke a word of Italian between them.  The brother – Altaïr – strongly resembled Malik and Ezio’s mother, except for his eyes, which were a strange color, almost tawny gold, like an animal’s.  The sister – Kadija – was tall for a woman, flat chested and broad shouldered, with ebony skin and closely shorn hair; she dressed like a man and could have easily passed for one, if she so chose.  They both seemed supremely disinterested in meeting her; she could tell it annoyed Ezio.  
            For the most part, while the Assassins seemed curious about her and Rosa, they kept their distance.  Not Malik.  He’d struck up a conversation, in awkward and accented French, asking about their wands, about Beauxbatons, about the European wizarding world in general.  His wife was not an Assassin, he’d explained.  She wanted their daughter to have the chance to make a real choice whether or not she wanted a life in the Order when she came of age.  
            “Of course, that’s not what my family expects for her,” he said with a wry smile and a quick glance towards his formidable aunt.  “And, of course, she already hero-worships Altaïr.”  
            They followed his gaze and saw the little girl with Ezio’s other male cousin, who was swinging her high in the air, eliciting shrieks of childish laughter as her skirts billowed around her.  A few of the Assassins were watching him play with the child with approving smiles, but there was a wariness to their body language that prickled uneasily across her skin.  
            Malik sighed.  “At least he’s not teaching her to throw knives again.”  
            Rosa, who had been noticeably subdued and had barely left her side since they arrived at the villa, nervously laughed, but she didn’t; Ezio had told her enough about his cousin Altaïr for her to be fairly sure Malik wasn’t joking.  Malik’s wife was hovering next to Ezio’s mother, clutching a goblet with both hands and occasionally taking small, quick sips; she looked uncomfortable and in need of rescuing.  
            “Rosa,” she murmured in Italian.  “Go check on his wife.  I bet she’d relish an escape.”  
            Rosa followed her gaze, flashed her a quick, tightly drawn smile as she nodded, and strode away.  
            “You said your wife is not an Assassin,” she’d prompted, turning back to Malik.  “Has that created any difficulties, with your family?”  
            “No, of course not.  Everyone loves Sakineh,” he replied, turning to look directly at her.  The golden gleam of his eyes was unsettling; all of the Assassins’ eyes flashed gold when they looked at her or Rosa.  
            Ezio had explained, some, about his Order’s second sight, but he himself rarely used it around her.  It made her uncomfortable that everyone she met was unabashedly scrutinizing her; she found the utter lack of any subtly offensive, and more than a little threatening.  _They’re not used to socializing with kuffār_ , Ezio tried to explain.  She’d had to ask what that word meant and wasn’t sure if the term offended her or not when he explained that it was simply used to mean ‘not a member of the Order.’  While the wizarding world looked down on her _dirty blood_ , she was at least acknowledged as one of them; the Assassins’ distinction made it that much clearer that, no matter that she also had magic, she was still considered, and would probably always be, an outsider in their world.  
            “But, then again, Ezio’s a Master now…” Malik continued, trailing off with a thoughtful shrug.  
            “Does that matter?” she asked.  
            Malik shrugged again.  “It’s generally frowned upon to marry outside the Order.  Especially for a Master; they’re expected to set an example for their students to emulate.”  
            “Oh,” she finally said, after trying, and failing, to come up with a more eloquent response.  
            “They’ll discourage the match until it’s made.  But once the contract is signed, they’ll accept you,” Malik said.  She was fairly sure he was trying to be kind.  
            “What makes you think Ezio plans to marry me?”   
            “There’s no other reason he would bring a kāfir to something like this.”  Malik’s gesture encompassed the party surrounding them.  “He brought you to meet his family, his _entire_ family – blood and Assassin both – of course he intends to marry you.”  
            Something caught his attention while she was trying to formulate any sort of reply to his pronouncement and Malik swore beneath his breath before hastily excusing himself.  Her stomach flutter-flopped as she watched him head straight for his daughter and wrest a long curved knife out of her small hands, before turning and, presumably, berating his cousin for letting her play with it.  Part of her had already realized what Malik was telling her – that Ezio had wanted her to meet his family, see his ancestral lands – but she wished he hadn’t.  If Ezio thought that meeting the rest of his family, seeing the estate that he was going to inherit, would entice her to marry him, he had been gravely mistaken; if anything, it had the opposite effect.  Everything about the Assassins frightened her.  
            That fear didn’t stop her from saying yes when he came to find her after dinner that evening.  It didn’t stop her from slipping away with him while everyone else was drinking and making merry.  It didn’t stop her from going to his bed.    
            She’d been horrified by his scars, the largest and most gruesome of which was a ropey, contracted burn scar that stretched from his hip to mid-thigh.  It wasn’t fair.  He had a beautiful body, lean and firm, and he knew how to use it.  She even liked his dark skin, liked how pale and delicate she felt beside him, but she couldn’t bear to touch his scars – the places he’d been burned, shot, stabbed, where he’d been hit by shrapnel and hexes.  She couldn’t stand the sight of them, the feeling of them beneath her fingers, rubbing against her skin; sometimes the revulsion almost choked her.  He could tell she didn’t like his scars, and she could tell that that knowledge was hurtful for him.  
            With the benefit of hindsight, she saw what a mistake it was to surrender her virginity in his bed in Lucca; she hadn’t meant what he had taken it to mean.  It was also a mistake to keep having sex with him, to allow him further and further intimacies, but Ezio was a wonderful and satisfying lover, and she ached to be with him again when he was away.  She’d been telling herself _just one more time_ the entire last year and a half of their relationship as his lovemaking became sweeter and more tender, intimate, and she became more restless and reckless.  Really, it was just a matter of time before something happened and their love affair had to end.  She felt terrible that he hadn’t seen that.  


            “How horrible,” Rosa murmured, squeezing her shoulder supportively.  As always, her grip was a shade stronger than socially acceptable, more likely to make the recipient wince than provide comfort, but because they’d been friends for so many years she took some comfort from it nonetheless.  “But at least now you know his breakdown wasn’t entirely because of you.”  
            “I don’t know that,” she snapped, suddenly irritated by Rosa’s patronizing, but well intended, kindness.  “Not at all.  He’s an Assassin; he’s _used_ to people dying, to some extent.  Losing family like that – so suddenly and senselessly – may have made him more fragile, but what _I_ did, what _I_ took from him, that’s what broke his heart and killed his soul.”  Her eyes were burning and her throat was tight, swelling shut.  “And I did it all for nothing.  Nothing!”  
            Sob after sob clawed its way painfully out of her chest and up her throat.  She shoved Rosa’s hands away, knowing herself unworthy of that kindness and comfort after what she’d done.  She heard the questioning murmurer of Karl’s baritone, Rosa’s indistinct low-voiced response.  She knew that they were talking about her, _pitying_ her, and part of her wondered why she didn’t care.  
            Jacopo had grown distant over the last several months.  It had started with him cancelling a few dates, but he’d quickly reschedule for other evenings; then he’d stopped rescheduling.  He began having his secretary screen her calls next.  She left messages, but he took days to return her calls.  She stopped leaving messages after a few weeks.  She saw him in front of the movie house last week, on her way home after working late.  He was clearly surprised to see her and was unflatteringly eager to make his excuses and slip away; she had the distinct impression that she’d caught him meeting someone else, another woman.  Apparently she’d been replaced.  She probably should have felt more hurt, betrayed, but, in all honesty, it felt deserved.  Her parents, of course, would be disappointed.  
            Jacopo’s distancing himself from her had started not long after she broke things off with Ezio; she couldn’t help wondering if the two were connected in some way.  It wasn’t Ezio’s doing, she was certain of that, at least.  If Ezio planned revenge, it would be a passionate, grand gesture – like trying to drown himself in the river had been – not something like this.  It was far too subtle a revenge for him.  If the breakdown of her relationship with Jacapo was by design, rather than coincidence, there was a coldness and calculation to it, a cruelty that Ezio just didn’t possess.  She shivered at the implication and lurched to her feet.  
            “Where are you going?” Rosa demanded, immediately at her side.  
            “To use the toilet,” she replied, enunciating each word carefully.  “Is that permitted?”  
            Rosa sighed at her sarcasm and stepped back.  “Try not to fall in.”  
            She didn’t bother responding and left the room with as much dignity she could muster while the floor tilted and wobbled beneath her feet.  Her shoulder collided with the doorframe.  She bit the inside of her cheek and managed not to cry out.  She _probably_ should have put her glasses back on.  
            It felt like she’d been walking for miles when she finally staggered into the bathroom, shut the door behind herself and managed the lock with shaking, rubbery hands.  She knelt before the toilet and carefully smoothed her hair back from her face, twisting it into a tight knot at the base of her skull.  A small spot of cold urine on the floor in front of the toilet soaked through her skirt beneath her right knee.  _Damn it, Karl.  Even a dog would be housebroken by now_.  She took a deep breath and then vomited, violently, into the toilet.  Repeatedly.  It was far more unpleasant than she had anticipated.   
            She could hear Rosa pounding on the door and rattling the knob, her roommate’s voice an indistinct shrill blur of anxiety and resignation, tinted ever so slightly with anger and frustration, as she pulled the chain to flush Ezio’s grappa away.  
            “Go away, Rosa.  I’m fine,” she shouted, using the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.  The floor looked incredibly inviting.  She was tempted to curl up on the bathmat.  The lock clicked loudly behind her.  _Fuck_.  
            “You done barfing up kittens?” Karl asked cheerfully as he hauled her to her feet.  Her ankles felt rubbery and her knees hurt and the taste of grappa and bile was acrid on her tongue.  
            “I hate you,” she mumbled, shoving away from him.  She didn’t, not really.  Karl was a decent enough fellow on his own, and Rosa was crazy about him.  
            He did a terrible job of suppressing a sharp bark of laughter and called her something in German; it sounded even less flattering than his German slurs usually did.  
            “Drink this,” Rosa commanded, shoving a tall glass of water, cloudy with several heaping spoonfuls of sodium bicarbonate, into her hands.  “We’re out of aspirin.  Damn this war.”  
            She tried not to grimace as she drank the tepid water Rosa had given her.  “I don’t actually hate you, Karl.”  
            “Yeah,” he shrugged with a wry smile.  “I didn’t really mean what I said about you either.”  
            Rosa’s smile was starting to look strained as she handed her her glasses.  She felt guilty.  
            “You guys can have the bedroom; I’ll sleep on the couch,” she said, carefully creeping down the hallway toward the living room, her hand braced against the wall as the floor rolled beneath her feet.  She could hear Rosa and Karl arguing behind her, their voices low and brittle.  It felt heavenly to sit and let herself sink into the cushions of the couch.  Rosa joined her some time later – it could have been minutes or hours, she couldn’t tell the difference at this point – and spread the thick blanket she’d brought over both of them.  
            “Where’s Karl?” she asked, cuddling closer to Rosa to rest her head on her shoulder.  
            “He left.  We’re having lunch tomorrow.”  Rosa rested her head against hers with a sigh.  “It’s fine.”  
            “I’m sorry-”  
            “It’s not your fault.  Nothing to do with you at all, really.”  Rosa looped her arm through hers.  “It’s his parents.  They don’t understand why Karl’s not joining the fight _For The Greater Good_.  They think he’s a coward for being a pacifist – they blame _me_ for being a _bad influence_ – and it’s really starting to get to him.  There’s nothing cowardly about being a pacifist!”  
            “No,” she agreed, hugging Rosa’s arm tightly.  “It takes a lot of courage to stand by your beliefs, especially in times like this when those beliefs are unpopular enough to be dangerous.  I’m proud of both of you.”  
            Rosa sighed again.  “I feel like it doesn’t matter who wins these wars, we, the people, are going to lose either way.”  
            “Probably.”  Her head was starting to ache and her nose itched, but she was too comfortable to move to scratch it.  “I didn’t know I would miss him this much.  I think I made a mistake.”  
            “For goodness sakes, four-eyes, tell him that,” Rosa groaned.  
            “You just don’t like having to pay half the rent,” she grumbled.  Her mouth felt cottony.  _God I need to brush my teeth_.  The thought of walking all the way back to the bathroom made her want to cry.  
            “Who in their right mind _likes_ paying rent?” Rosa retorted.  “Besides, you’re more fun to be around when you’re happy, and Ezio was really good at making you happy.”  
            “I don’t know how to reach him,” she protested.  
            “Ask his mother.”  
            She snorted.  “Just as easy as that?”  
            “Why not?”  
            “I don’t think she was ever really all that keen on me being with her son to begin with,” she replied.  “Now she probably hates me.”  
            “You don’t actually know that,” Rosa pointed out.  “She loves her son; what mother wouldn’t be willing to put aside her personal feelings to see her child happy?”  
            _That one_ , she thought grimly, but she knew better than to say _that_ to Rosa.  


            The first few years she’d known Ezio she noticed little things, here and there, that suggested that he wasn’t entirely the carefree young Roman man he wanted her to see him as.  He had a bit of an accent – not an Italian one.  She hadn’t really noticed it at first, but hints of it crept out when he was tired or distracted, especially as he became more comfortable with her.  He shrugged it off, pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, when she finally asked him about it.  _That’s just the way people talk in Lucca.  I spent a lot of time there as a child_.  It would have been a reasonable enough explanation, except she knew other people from Toscana, and none of them had an accent anything like his.  
            He was surprisingly well informed on the political situations of various places – Germany, Russia, Turkey, Egypt.  He could read Karl’s German and Austrian newspapers.  _I learned German at school_ , he explained with a shrug.  He never said what school he’d attended.  He was momentarily defensive, before he’d gotten angry, when she asked about a packet of letters addressed in strange, fluid calligraphy that she’d discovered in his pocket one evening.  _Why are you going through my pockets?  Jesus, Cristina!  What’s the matter with you?_   He’d left in a temper and a month passed before she saw him again, all sunny smiles and shy kisses and bearing a gift of a carnelian necklace that felt very expensive.  He brought her rare books and boxes of stockings as fine as cobwebs.  He was sweetness and smiles, long conversations over coffee and unselfconscious laughter.  But he was also secrets and silence, cold lonely nights and unsatisfactory explanations.  _I was away.  Working_.  The usual, vague answer he always gave when she asked where he’d been, before he quickly asked what she’d been reading, how work was going, and how Rosa was doing.  
            What he couldn’t explain were the harnesses strapped to his forearms, thrumming with a strange magical current like nothing she’d ever seen or felt before, or the brand on his ring finger.  He always seemed to _forget_ his wand, or never had it handy, but he was so adept at casting spells _without_ one that that hardly seemed to matter; she had heard of wandless nonverbal magic but it always unnerved her to actually see him do it, which he regularly did, and it seemed to be as natural as breathing for him.  He didn’t _really_ understand quidditch.  He’d never ridden a broom.  His messages were delivered not by owls, but by eagles – great, tawny birds with cold gold eyes and ruthlessly curved beaks – or, on occasion, falcons.  They all had an inscribed ring of some strange metal around their left ankles and announced their presence with piercing cries.  There had been a noticeable drop in the pigeon population around her neighborhood when Ezio was still writing and visiting her regularly.  Sometimes the owls she sent him didn’t return and she wondered if her messages had reached him.  


            “I found a couple letters when I was cleaning the apartment,” Rosa said casually a few days later.  “Written in what looks like Arabic.  They have heavy wax seals on them, I think Ezio must have left them here.”  
            “Rosa,” she started warningly.  “Tell me you didn’t steal his letters-”  
            “I found them while cleaning, in the bowels of the couch,” Rosa sniffed defensively.  “They must have fallen out of his pockets while you two were otherwise occupied.”  
            She hummed doubtfully as she examined the seals on the letters Rosa handed over.  The stylized Assassin crest was recognizable from Ezio’s ring, although it was a different interpretation of the symbol.  _Each branch uses their own version of the Order’s crest_ , Ezio had told her.  Although the two seals were slightly different, the stylized crest was the same.  _These must be from the brother and sister_.  Both seals contained patterns of seven pointed stars.  
            “Can you tell who sent them?” Rosa asked, frowning over her shoulder at the seals.  
            She bit her lip thoughtfully before replying.  “Ezio said each Master’s ring is unique, like a signature, but I’m not sure how to read them.”  
            “That one looks like the constellation of Leo, the way the stars are laid out.”  
            “Leo?” she asked incredulously.  “You can tell that just by looking at a mangled wax impression?”  
            “I always got top marks in astronomy,” Rosa sniffed.  “I’m hurt you don’t remember.”  
            “How can I ever forget?”  She rolled her eyes and handed Rosa the other letter.  “If I’ve got Leo, what constellation is this supposed to be, oh wise and learned one?”  
            Rosa studied the seal, turning the letter different ways as she frowned over the constellation.  “Give me a minute,” she mumbled and bustled out of the room.  
            Cristina sighed and sank back into the couch.  The slanting sunlight filtering through the windows drew unflattering attention to just how grimy the thin glass panes had gotten.  _I’ll have to wash the windows in the spring_.  She _hated_ washing windows.  


            _Tell me about your family_ , she asked him from time to time.  She learned that his mother and sister had the same name – _it’s a tradition, in my mother’s family, a Maria in every generation, going back to the first crusades_ – that he lived with his uncle in a sort of boarding house.  He never gave an address or description.  His oldest cousin lived in a small town in the south of France, with his wife and three children.  She learned that he loved children and wanted many of his own, one day, but not just yet.  _Mal has twin boys_ , he’d told her.  _They’re still so small, but they’re growing strong, like weeds_.  His eyes had shone when he talked about his cousin’s children, showed her pictures of the twins and their older sister, a little girl with eyes as large as a Byzantine icon.  _Isn’t she beautiful?  All the men are going to line up for her to break their hearts_.  Sometimes he talked about his other cousins, who also lived abroad; he was vague about where.  She learned that he saw them often, but that they seldom came to Italy.  She wondered how he saw them so often, if they stayed so far away.  He never gave her an answer.  Occasionally he told her childhood stories about his older brother, who had died, along with their father, when Ezio was fourteen.  He otherwise never spoke of his father.  She found that rather strange.  


            “This constellation is Aquila,” Rosa announced as she exploded out of their bedroom into the living room, brandishing an old astronomy textbook.  “And I know who sent it!”  
            “How?”  
            “Look.”  Rosa thumped the book down on the coffee table and flipped it open to a dog-eared page.  She held the seal next to the illustration of the constellation Aquila; the match was obvious.  
            “Okay,” she said slowly.  “So the constellation _is_ Aquila, but how does that tell you who sent the letter?”  
            “One of the stars in the seal is slightly larger than the others-” Rosa explained, excitedly indicating.  
            She studied the star Rosa was pointing at with a doubtful frown.  “Okay?”  
            “The star in the seal corresponds to a star in the constellation called _Altaïr_ ,” Rosa crowed.  “Which is the name of one of Ezio’s cousins, right?” she prompted impatiently when Cristina didn’t respond.  
            “Altaïr, right,” she confirmed tiredly; holding letters his family had written to Ezio was somehow making her sadder, made her miss him more.  “The one with the creepy eyes.”  
            Rosa sighed.  “Don’t be sour, that was some great sleuthing.  Positively ingenious.  Compliment me already, _jesus_.”  
            “Yes, yes; very clever, Rosa,” she mumbled as she heaved herself off the couch and headed for the bedroom.  She heard the clatter-smash of a plate being dropped in the kitchen; she sighed and shut the bedroom door.  _Without magic we would have run out of dishes a long time ago_.  The drawer in the table beside her bed was prone to sticking, but she managed to open it enough to fish one of Ezio’s letters out.  She ran her fingers over the sealing wax imprint of his signet ring – the ubiquitous crest of the Order, together with the alchemical symbol for Saturn superimposed over the symbols for salt and iron.  
            “I’m running to the store – we’re out of milk – I’ll be right back,” Rosa said, opening the door to pop her head in.  
            “Okay.  Thanks, sky-nerd,” she replied with a weak smile as she hastily hid the letter she was holding behind her back.  
            “Don’t mention it, four-eyes,” Rosa called over her shoulder.  The front door slammed loudly behind her.  She was too distracted to flinch at the sound, like she usually did, and withdrew Ezio’s letter from behind her back.  She exhaled a long shaky breath as she contemplated it – the bold strokes and jaunty flourishes of his handwriting, the deep red of the sealing wax and the weight of the creamy-pale parchment itself.  
            _Why Saturn, Ezio?  
            Saturn is associated with focus, precision, purpose, valuable hard lessons learned, destiny, reality, and time.  It concerns a person’s sense of duty, their personal discipline and responsibility, including their physical and emotional endurance during hardships_ , he’d replied.  _My mother chose it as a reminder of what it is to be a Master_.  
            She had assumed iron and salt represented blood and sweat, the work he’d put towards rising in his career, but he had shaken his head when she said as much.  
            _Salt and iron are for tears and blood_.  He’d offered no further explanation.  
            _Tears and blood_ , she reflected bitterly, pressing his seal to her sternum, against her painfully beating heart.  _His signet was a warning of what he’d bring me, and, like Oedipus, I fulfilled the prophecy by trying to prevent it_.  The irony did not escape her.  
            “Careful holding that ink against your skin,” a voice said from the doorway.  “That shade of green, it’s probably made with arsenic.”  
            She drew her breath sharply in surprise – it _might_ have sounded an awful lot like a shrill squeak – and spun to face the speaker.  
            “Karl!  What are you – I didn’t hear Rosa come back-” she started, instinctively going on the offensive to cover her surprise and embarrassment.  
            “I’m back,” Rosa called out on her way to the kitchen as the front door slammed behind her.  “Porca madonna, you could buy a whole cow for how much they’re charging for a couple liters of milk!”  The lid to the ice box slammed, followed by the sound of breaking glass.  “Shit!”  
            Karl grimaced as he slouched against the bedroom doorframe and glanced over his shoulder.  “Everything okay in there, Rosa?”  
            “How did you get in?” she asked.  
            “Fine, fine.  Everything’s fine.”  Rosa called from the kitchen, her voice ever so slightly higher than usual.  She made a mental note not to drink any of the milk Rosa just bought.  
            “How did you get in?” she asked again, louder.  
            “Through the front door,” he shrugged.  
            “Wasn’t it locked?”  
            “I used my key.”  
            “You used your – he has a _key_?” she demanded shrilly, addressing the question to Rosa, who had approached to kiss Karl hello.  She was holding one of the nicer kitchen towels wadded up against her hand.  
            “Yeah… I meant to tell you…” Rosa winced apologetically.  
            “ _Tell me_?  Don’t you mean _ask me_?” she fumed.  “We never gave _my_ boyfriend a key.”  
            “The one that just dropped you like a cup of cold poison?” Karl inquired coolly as he drew his wand and healed Rosa’s cut finger nonverbally.  
            “I was referring to Ezio,” she bit out, frowning at the bloody towel Rosa was still holding.  
            “Oh right,” Karl hummed.  “The one you dumped.”  
            “Karl!” Rosa hissed warningly.   
            “He paid our rent!”  
            “With money he earned _how_ , exactly?”  
            “At least _he_ could afford to support a family!”  
            “Enough!  Both of you,” Rosa commanded, stepping between them and pushing their drawn wands down.    
            She didn’t remember drawing her wand, aiming it at Karl.  She took a deep breath, and then another.  
            “I’m sorry.”  She sighed.  “Does our kitchen look like a crime scene?”  
            “Maybe?”  Rosa grimaced.  “I’ll clean-”  
            “No,” she interrupted her firmly.  “I’ll clean it.  You’ll probably only make it worse.”  She put her letter back in the drawer and tucked the letters to Ezio into the book on her nightstand, for safe keeping.  She hesitated at the bedroom door, carefully gathering and weighing her words.  “I think only people who contribute to the rent should have keys, but we can talk about that later.”  
            Rosa and Karl waited until she had left the room to begin a furiously whispered argument.  
            It smelled like curdling milk in the kitchen.  There was broken glass on the floor, smears of blood on the counter and one of the cabinets and spattered on the clean dishes drying in the rack next to the sink.  She sighed.  Rosa had left the fresh milk out on the counter.  _This is why the milk keeps going bad_ , she thought with a sharp spike of irritation as she put the bottle in the ice box.  The kitchen was spotless a few cleaning charms later.  She’d gotten _really_ good at casting those, living with Rosa had provided ample opportunity for practice.  It wasn’t that Rosa was messy, or even actually all that clumsy; she just had a habit of recklessly barreling through life at full tilt, like the proverbial bull in a china shop.  Sometimes she wondered where Rosa found the energy to be so boundlessly animated, so excited about everything.  Her eyes fell on Mari’s letter, refolded and innocently sitting on the kitchen table.  She picked it up with a sigh and settled on the nearest chair to reread it.  


            Ezio had finally introduced her to his younger sister after they’d been seeing each other for two and a half years.  She was cautiously excited to meet his sister, whom she had heard astonishingly little about.  She knew more about Rosa’s boyfriend’s family than she did about Ezio’s, and Rosa and Karl had only been seeing each other a couple of months at that point.  Hopefully it was a sign that Ezio was ready for their relationship to get more serious, that they would officially agree to be exclusive or maybe even that a proposal wasn’t that far off.  
            Mari Auditore had high, almost feline, cheekbones, her brother’s brown eyes and burnt caramel skin, and a sweater-straining bust line.  She was hanging on Ezio’s arm and grinning manically, delighted that their mother was allowing her to go to the carnival festivities at Il Colosseo – so long as she was escorted by her brother, of course.  Ezio looked less than thrilled.  
            “Are you his girlfriend?” Mari eagerly asked.  “Promise, promise we’ll be great friends.  I’ve always wanted a sister.”  
            “You have Lucia,” Ezio replied testily.  
            “Lu’s not a _real_ sister,” his sister replied, rolling her eyes.  
            Ezio’s eyes narrowed.  “Did Mother approve that dress before you left the house?  It’s very low.”  
            “ _Jesus Christ_ , E-zo.  It’s fine.  I’m sixteen years old – not a child anymore,” Mari sassed and adjusted the delicate silver filigree demi-mask she was wearing.  “ _You_ don’t think my dress is inappropriate, do you Cristina?” she implored, looking up at her with wide, cognac-brown eyes.  
            _She has a less potent version of her brother’s charming smile_ , she noticed.  Ezio’s smile – the one he used when he wanted something – made her ache to say _yes_ to whatever he asked, _especially_ when she knew she should be saying _no_.  She was unwilling reminded of the most recent time Ezio had smiled at her like that, as he eased his hand just far up enough of her thigh to get his fingers wet; she’d have given anything not to blush that painfully hot shade of red in front of his precocious sister.   
            “Her dress is fine, bello mio,” she hastily assured him.  “And she’s got both of us to chaperone her.”  
            There was an envenomed edge to Mari’s trill of laughter as she shook her curls back over her shoulder.  
            “Mother sent me along to chaperone _you_.  She doesn’t trust E-zo to behave himself,” Mari chirped.  
            “Is your mother very strict?” she asked Mari in an attempt to learn more about the mysterious mother Ezio was so careful not to say much about, as she slipped her arm through Ezio’s.  She sometimes forgot how used she had gotten to being totally shut out, to swallowing her jealousy and bitterness over how open and obvious Rosa and Karl’s relationship was.  Most of the time, whenever a friend or colleague of hers would start to see someone, they meet their boyfriend’s parents after merely a few weeks.  It had taken Rosa and Karl longer, but Karl’s family was in _another country_ and Rosa’s was all the way up in Venezia; Ezio’s mother, sister _and_ uncle all lived in Roma.  Everyone she knew, herself included, just assumed that Ezio worked for the Ministry as an Unspeakable; it was the most obvious explanation for why he was so secretive about everything.  
            He smelled like cloves and black pepper, sultry hints of rosemary and something else she couldn’t quite identify; she snuggled closer and drew his scent so deeply into her lungs she could almost taste him.  He flashed her a rakish smile and adjusted his own silver filigree demi-mask, a heavier, more martial version of the delicate one worn by his sister.  He was dressed like a sailor from the golden era of piracy – tall boots and suggestively tight breeches, a loose shirt left more open than buttoned closed, a couple days’ worth of stubble darkened his jaw and his hair was artfully pulled back in a messy ponytail – in short, he looked like temptation incarnate.  She never would have admitted it, but she had already privately acknowledged to herself that after a few drinks, she might need a chaperone to keep her from doing anything too foolish that evening – like encouraging him to compromise her in a dark corner.  Ezio never pushed her for intimacies she was uncomfortable allowing, but he certainly didn’t hesitate to accept everything she offered.  
            “She’s just well acquainted with the ways men like to misbehave around women,” Mari laughed.  
            “Enough, Mari,” Ezio bit out, gripping his sister’s arm tightly.  “Mind your mouth or I’ll take you straight home.”  
            “Make sure you bring Cristina along if you do,” his sister retorted as she wrenched her arm out of his grasp.  “Mother would _love_ to meet her.”  
            She stiffened, and she _knew_ that Ezio had noticed her reaction because he seemed to notice _everything_.  She couldn’t tell if Mari was being sarcastic, or if their mother _had_ wanted to meet her all this time and Ezio was keeping her from them like a secret.  She desperately wanted to ask, but was too afraid of spoiling the evening; Ezio always left whenever he felt like she was pushing him for information.  
            “We’re going to be late,” Ezio replied as he slid a possessive arm around her waist after a moment of terse silence.    
            _Apparently he’s decided to let the matter drop_.  
            Mari smirked triumphantly as she skipped along beside them.  She felt like she had missed something, that there was something left unsaid that had passed between the siblings.  She wondered what they were hiding and her curiosity momentarily overpowered her usual resentment at the way Ezio compartmentalized his life and shut her out of most of it.  
            They were approaching the ruins of Il Colosseo when Mari suddenly dashed ahead with a delighted shriek of “Giulia!”  
            She watched Mari fling her arms around a beautiful girl with long, reddish-blond hair.  Like Mari, she was dressed as a Renaissance courtesan; they were clearly friends and had coordinated their costumes.  She couldn’t help smiling at the memory of how she and Rosa had done the same thing at their age.  
            “Alone at last,” Ezio murmured, drawing her closer to himself.  “At least for the moment.”  He dipped his head to kiss her.  
            “For the moment?” she queried turning her face away from his to avoid his kiss.  
            “I promised some friends we’d meet up with them,” he explained, attention suddenly drawn by something, or someone, over her shoulder.  
            “Ya, Ezio!”  
            “Oh fucking hell,” he muttered.  
            She followed the direction of his gaze over her shoulder.  Approaching them was a figure dressed as a plague doctor, she recognized it from drawings in her books: he had a wide-brimmed black hat, and below round spectacles a carnival-like mask with an elongated birdlike nose covering his face, and a long black coat.  She stared at him wide-eyed as he approached, there was something slightly _off_ about him, but she couldn’t put her finger quite on what it was that bothered her.  She glanced at Ezio and got the feeling he was staring not at the figure but at the shadowy ruins of Il Colosseo from which he had emerged.  Ezio did not seem surprised as the figure continued to speak to him in a strange language, rapidly spoken and accompanied by exuberant gestures.  He broke off abruptly, mid-sentence from the sound of it, at a sharp gesture from Ezio so subtle she almost missed it.  Again, she had the strong feeling something more was going on, something she wasn’t meant to see.  
            “Asad, this is Cristina.  Cristina, this is my friend, Asad.”  
            “It is my honor to meet you,” Asad said, pulling the beaked mask down from his face.  He left the round glasses on, and, in the moderately stronger light he was now standing in, she could see that the lenses were clear.  
            _Regular glasses then_ , she noted and wondered if Asad’s eyesight was so poor he had needed to work his glasses into his costume.  
            “Who else came out tonight?” Ezio asked, again glancing towards the shadowed ruins of Il Colosseo.  
            “Alonzo, Emilia, Marco, Matteo-” Asad shrugged “-Juan-”  
            “Innocenzo?” Ezio interrupted him to ask, tone acid edged and aggressive.  
            Asad shrugged again.  “Him too.”  
            Ezio’s arm tightened around her waist and he swore heartily under his breath.  “Who invited him?”  
            “He’s a Master, E-zo; he invited himself.”  


            She clenched her teeth and took another deep breath.  Her hand was thrust into her pocket, gripping Ezio’s letters; she could hear the parchment crinkle as her grip nervously tightened before she made herself let go and take her hand out of her pocket.  _You’ve made it this far, don’t lose your nerve now_.  She threw back her shoulders in an impression of confidence she certainly didn’t feel and rapt the heavy iron knocker.  It was shaped like a lion’s paw, claws fully extended.  She decided not to dwell on the possible symbolism.  
            Rosa in Fiore had taken longer to find than she’d anticipated; it was a grand, yet surprisingly innocuous building, an impressive Renaissance palazzo with a beautiful inner courtyard that recessed the entrance proper from the street and large potted orange trees provided some degree of privacy for the arrival and departure of the brothel’s patrons.  Upon further reflection, she really wasn’t all that surprised that none of the people she’d asked for directions along her way had wanted to admit that they knew where the infamous high-end brothel was located.  
            A hollow-eyed doorman let her in and left her in foyer.  The brothel’s interior was beautiful – polished marble floors, velvet flocked wallpaper in a delicate shades of bone and gold, and a massive double staircase curving up to the open balcony of the floor above.  She noticed that all the visible furniture was upholstered in smooth, waxed leather.  _Probably easier to clean_.  She decided to remain standing.  
            “What are you doing here, Cristina?  Sightseeing?  You couldn’t _possibly_ afford any of the merchandise.”  
            She glanced up with a sharp flash of irritation and rekindled resentment as she watched Ezio’s friend Lucia drift down the stairs.  She was dressed all in white – v-neck, short-sleeved cotton jersey undershirt and mid-calf length Turkish trousers – _training whites_ , Ezio had called them, worn second-skin tight.  From the stories Ezio had told her, she had somehow gotten the impression that his childhood friend “Lu” was a boy; she’d been confused when they were finally introduced and she discovered that Lu appeared to be a woman – surprisingly built and angular – but apparently a woman nonetheless.  
            She’d _never_ liked Lucia.  
            “Lucia,” she greeted her coolly.  “You’re looking well.  Are those new?”  
            “Yeah,” Lucia smirked, pressing the palms of her hands against her breasts.  “I sacrificed a black rooster and invoked Marbas for these.  I was thinking of going bigger, but E-zo said this size suits me _just right_.”  Lucia paused to bare her teeth; it looked more like a snarl than a smile.  “You should give it a try, sometime; yours could do with a lift.”  
            Actually, she _hated_ Lucia.  
            “Is Mrs. Auditore in?” she asked, refusing to rise to Lucia’s bait.  “I wanted to return some letters Ezio left in my apartment.”  
            “Madonna Maria isn’t interested in seeing you.  You can leave the letters with me.”  
            “No.  I came to give them to Mrs. Auditore – not you – and I’m not leaving until I speak with her.”  
            “You’re not welcome here,” Lucia breathed, expression sharpening into something almost sinister.  “You should hand over what you came to deliver and just _leave_.”  
            Her skin prickled with uncomfortable awareness and she reached for her wand.  _I should have told Rosa I was coming here_.  She hadn’t because Rosa would, _of course_ , have insisted on coming with her, and she had wanted to face this alone.  In hindsight, it was a wildly ill-advised decision.  
            “Stop trying to frighten me,” she replied.  She hated herself for the way she flinched as Lucia drew closer to her.  
            “I’m not even trying,” Lucia jeered.  “Silly little kāfir, who do you think you are?  Pushing your way back into our world, making demands.  I could carve you like a goose; they’d never find your body, you know.  How are things with your boyfriend – the one who left you for someone else?  And your brassy roommate, she’s been well, too, I understand?”  
            She could feel terrified sweat soaking through the underarms of her blouse and her tongue was sticking to the roof of her painfully dry mouth.  _I_ _really_ _should have told Rosa_ _I was coming here_.  She knew her casting got worse when she was nervous or frightened, and she had never been that great at hexes to begin with.  
            “Enough, Lucia,” Maria Auditore commanded from the top of the stairs.  Her dress was white – long, tight-fitted sleeves and calf-length skirts, the square neckline just low enough to frame the single strand of enormous peacock green pearls she wore around her neck; her dark hair, as always, was flawlessly upswept.  She continued speaking to Lucia, presumably in Arabic, as she descended the stairs, one hand trailing along the balustrade.  Her nails, Cristina couldn’t help noticing, were painted dark vermillion.   
            Lucia shot a final snarl at Cristina and sprinted up the opposite staircase.  Maria watched Lucia leave in dispassionate silence before returning her attention to her.  
            “I had not expected to see you again.  What brings you to my house?”  
            She noticed there was no greeting or feeling behind the words – not that she’d expected to be warmly received, but the utter lack of any emotional tone at all made her uneasy.  Maria Auditore was a woman carved of stone, with hard, reptilian eyes; she always expected Ezio’s mother to be different, more like the emotive, outgoing children she’d raised.  At least she’d known how Lucia felt about her.  
            “Is there somewhere less open, more private, for us to speak, Madonna?” she asked, hesitating over the title.  She doubted that she’d ever get used to, much less understand, the Assassins’ strange ways.  
            Maria arched a severe brow.  “I do not think we have much to say to one another, Cristina Vespucci.”  
            She flushed at the rebuke and thrust a hand in her pocket; Maria’s very pointed use of her last name made her feel far more threatened than Lucia’s explicit threats.  Her fingers instinctively wrapped tightly around her wand, even though she was terrified Maria would notice the gesture and interpret it as a threat.  “Please, Madonna,” she whispered.  
            Maria contemplated her for another long moment before wordlessly turning on her heel and walking towards the arching double doorway between the two staircases that led to the brothel’s salon.  Cristina exhaled slowly in relief and then followed.  The only footsteps to be heard were her own.  She hated how soundlessly the Assassins moved.  
            “What brings you to my house?” Maria asked again as she alighted on the seat edge of a high-backed armchair – gilded gleaming wood and creamy tufted leather.  She sat like a graven image of queen considering a supplicant to the throne.  
            “Ezio left these at my apartment,” she said, hating how stilted and awkward she sounded, as she pulled the letters out of her pocket and stepped forward to hand them over.  “My roommate found them in our couch.  I thought, it only seemed right, to return them.”  
            “Did you attempt to have them translated?” Maria asked as she accepted the letters, eyes lingering on the ruby ring she still hadn’t taken off.  
            “Of course not!”  She twisted her hand in the fabric of her skirt and prayed Maria didn’t comment on the ring.  _What could I say that wouldn’t sound pathetic?  I should have left it at home_.  Her stomach clenched at the thought of taking it off.  
            Maria hummed in response, tone heavy with judgement and doubt, and she felt herself flushing with guilt and resentment.  Ezio _did_ deserve better than she’d treated him, but while her behavior hadn’t been exemplary, she hadn’t done _anything_ to justify Maria doubting her word.  
            “Is that all you came here for, Cristina Vespucci?”  
            She leveled her shoulders.  “I also wanted to offer your family my condolences on your loss-”  
            “Our _loss_?” Maria interrupted with a slight curl to her lips.  “What have I _lost_ that you wish to offer your _condolences_ for?”  
            “Your nephew,” she replied, tone slightly sharper than she had meant to sound.  
            Maria went suddenly, perfectly, still; she wasn’t completely sure the older woman was even still breathing.  
            “Malik seemed like a nice man, a good person.  I liked him when I met him at the Villa in Lucca,” she continued carefully, shaken at Maria’s reaction.  “Ezio was always showing me new pictures of the twins Malik had sent; he and his wife had such beautiful children…” she trailed off and licked her lips nervously.  “Mrs. Auditore?  Madonna?”  
            Maria rose from the chair, her movements slow and deliberate as she smoothed her hands down her dress.  
            The room suddenly felt cold and she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.  
            “Thank you, for your condolences, Cristina Vespucci.”  There was something horrible and hollow in Maria’s voice.  “You may also offer your congratulations, on Ezio’s marriage.  I trust you have also heard that news as well?”  
            “Yes,” she whispered.  “And I wish them every happiness.”  She didn’t, not really.  Not at all, actually.  
            “I do not think there is anything else for us to say to one another,” Maria said, her strange accent – a heavier version of the one Ezio had always tried so hard to hide – thickening.  “You may show yourself out.  Goodbye.”  She left without a backward glance, moving silently, spine perfectly straight, across the marble floor and presumably back up the stairs.  
            The foyer was empty when Cristina left the salon.  The heavy front door of the Rosa in Fiore closed behind her with an ominously solid thud when she stepped out onto the street.  She set out for her apartment without a backward glance; it took all of her will to not break into a run, every instinct telling her to get as far away as fast as she could.  She couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed, of being watched.  _It has been far too long since I last visited my parents_ , she decided, quickening her pace.  _I’ll pack as soon as I get home and leave at once_.  She broke into a run.


	17. Ezio: dreams

            He jerked awake, the smell of blood still heavy in his lungs from the dream.  He shuddered and wished he’d drank more before bed; alcohol helped keep the dreams away.  Taline whimpered in her sleep beside him and he rolled over to gather her into his arms.  In the two weeks since his return he’d noticed she’d had nightmares nearly every night.  He couldn’t be sure, but he hadn’t noticed that she suffered like this from nightmares before he left.  Then again, his own sleep had been far less interrupted before that contract as well.  
            “Taline,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple as he drew her tightly against his chest.  Her body jerked as she gave a sleepy whimper and he was glad he’d trapped her hands against himself.  Sometimes she lashed out when she was unexpectedly awoken.  
            “It’s okay; everything is okay, mogliettina,” he soothed.  
            “Ezio?”  She stirred against him, body supple and pleasantly firm against his own.  He could feel himself hardening appreciatively.  _Down,_ _Ezione.  
_             He’d come to bed naked – like he did most nights – after drinking a fifth of a bottle of arak – he’d started doing that most nights too – and found Taline seemingly already asleep.  She was wearing one of his kurtas; it was longer on her than most of her own dresses.  She’d also taken to wearing underwear to bed, ever since he found out about the miscarriage.  They’d only had sex that once since his return, and she must have mentioned it to the medic she saw the next day, because Asad dropped by later that evening and delivered a fairly blistering lecture on the virtues of _self-control_ and not being _a selfish ass_.  He’d had to promise, again and again, to wait until Taline had healed and was ready, just to make Asad shut up.  
            “What were you dreaming about?” he asked as he slid his hand up her smooth thighs.  _She’s keeping up on her sugaring_ , he noted approvingly as his hands wandered.  He wanted to rip off her underwear.  He wanted to hear her moaning his name while he was inside her, feel her heels digging into the small of his back when she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts and her nails scraping the skin of his shoulders as she clung to him and begged for more.  
            “I don’t remember,” she replied.  There was something off about her tone, like she might have been lying; he didn’t press her.  “I’m sorry varpet, I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
            “You didn’t.”  
            He traced along the edges of her underwear before easing his hand inside.  She momentarily tensed, breath rattling anxiously in her throat, before she spread her legs a little wider for him.  
            “Don’t you want me to touch you, Taline?” he implored as he thrust his fingers inside her, tormenting himself with how soft and smooth and deliciously warm and wet she was already; his mouth watered and his cock hardened.  “Don’t you want me to make love to you?”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she whispered after a painfully long moment.  
            _She doesn’t_.  His eyes stung and his throat felt tight as he forced himself to pull away from her.  
            “Ezio?”  
            “Stop lying to me,” he snapped, tone far harsher than he had intended and he hated himself for the way she flinched at the frustration in his voice.  
            He gritted his teeth and got out of bed.  He sucked his fingers clean of her fluids as he strode to the bathroom, hating himself, again, for how much he loved the way she tasted.  He waved the lamps to light, leaned against the edge of the sink, feet braced apart, and gripped his cock _.  Nothing more than a mindless, rutting animal around her_ , he angrily chastised himself as he stroked.  _Beast.  Brute.  Monster._   It barely even felt good, but his orgasm would come soon enough and only after then could he be trusted to go back to bed with his wife.  He might drink some more first, just to make sure he didn’t have any more nightmares.  
            “Ezio?”  
            _Cazzo._   She’d followed him into the bathroom.  
            “Yeah?” he croaked, annoyed because, after rejecting him, the very least she could do was give him some privacy to take care of things himself.  
            She bit her lip and watched him silently for a moment before reaching up under the long shirt she was wearing and dropping her underwear with an economical shimmy of her hips.  She carefully stepped out of them, leaving her panties in the middle of the bathroom floor as she backed up against the wall across from him and carefully pulled up his kurta to expose herself.  His hand froze mid-stroke and his breath caught in his throat.  
            “What are you doing?” he rasped, doing his best to master the urge to stride across the room and take her up against the wall; he could feel himself incrementally losing that battle.  
            She bit her lip and dropped her eyes.  “I want to please you, varpet,” she whispered.  
            He was hardly aware that he had crossed the room, only that she was in his arms and he was pulling the kurta off over her head and kissing her hungrily.  “Are you sure?  Only if you’re sure, mogliettina.  Please, please, don’t change your mind.”  
            “I want to be with you, Ezio.  Please.”  
            “Put your arms around my neck, mogliettina,” he whispered urgently as he caressed her body, pressing her against the wall and hooking his hands underneath the backs of her knees, lifting her up and open to him.  “Wrap your legs around my waist.”  A short gasp, sharply bitten off, escaped her lips when he penetrated her.  
            “Oh god, you feel so good – Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.  Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui-”  He pinned her against the wall, fingers digging into the meat of her backside as he thrust deep inside her.  “–Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis pecatoribus-” he broke off with a shuddering gasp as he came, clutching Taline and burying his face in her silky soft hair.  “-nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.  Amen,” he finished the prayer in a whisper as he pulled out and then he carried her back to their bed.  She was crying.  
            “I’m so sorry mogliettina, I didn’t mean to hurt you, please forgive me,” he pleaded as she hid her face against his chest.  “It’s been too long.  Not being with your woman does bad things to a man, mogliettina.  I couldn’t control myself and I’m so, so sorry.  Are you hurt, Taline?”  
            “Not much,” she whispered as he set her down gently and pulled the blankets up before he slid into the bed beside her.  
            “Have I made you bleed?  Should I take you to the medics?” he asked, hands anxiously flitting over her body, unsure where to touch, how to comfort her.  _Stupid, selfish stronzo.  
_             “No.  I’ll be okay.”  She cuddled closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and hiding her face against him.  “Be gentle with me, please, varpet?” she mumbled against his skin.  
            “Are you … are you _asking_ for me to make love to you again, mogliettina?” he asked slowly, cautiously.  He pressed her hips to his and shivered at the way the hot puffs of her breath unfurled against his chest.  
            “You can, if you want-”  
            “Of course I want to!”  Her mouth was pulpy-soft and sweet as he kissed her desperately.  “I want to make love to you all night, every night.  I want to make love to you first thing every morning and when I come home to you every evening.  God, it’s been torture, having you so close to me and not being able to have you.  I’ve been so allupato.  Will you, please, let me make love to you again?  Now?”  
            “Yes, varpet, I’d like that,” she mumbled against his chest, cuddling closer to him.  
            “I want you to,” he replied, carefully tracing the notches of her spine _.  Cazzo, she’s gotten thin_.  “Like it, I mean.  I want you to like being with me, to like the way I make you feel.  How does this feel, Taline?” he asked softly as he touched her, teasing soft touches brushing over her dewy skin.  “Does it feel good?”  
            “Ezio-”  
            “Yeah, mogliettina, say my name.  Tell your varpet who you belong to,” he murmured as he settled between her thighs.  She was sloppy-slippery from when he took her in the bathroom; it made entering her easier.  He made love to her slowly, taking his time touching her, teasing her.  It wasn’t easy to bring her to orgasm while he was inside her, sometimes she was simply too tense for him to trigger her release, but he worked her over patiently this time, holding himself back until he felt it shiver through her and then followed.  It was almost embarrassing how little it took for him.  
            “I’m going to make you thrill every time I’m inside you, mogliettina,” he promised her afterwards, as she settled in the cradle of his arms.  “It’ll help you learn to like making love with me.”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she murmured, voice muffled as she hid her face against him.  
            “And you need to eat more, it worries me how thin you’ve gotten,” he continued, tempering his tone gentle.  “You need a little extra weight, in case you get sick and to help you carry our children.”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she repeated faintly, turning to hide even more of her face against him.  
            He sighed and hugged her closer.  He wasn’t _tryin_ g to criticize her, but it sounded like that’s how she was interpreting his concern.  
            “I just want you to be healthy, mogliettina, that’s all.”  
            She didn’t respond.  
            _Probably already asleep_ , he reasoned, cuddling her close.  He loved the feeling of her in his arms, the way her breath wafted against his neck, his chest; he loved her warmth and permissiveness, the taste of her mouth and the softness of her skin.  He fell asleep listening to her heartbeat.  


            He awoke the next morning to her trying to slip out of bed.  He expressed his displeasure with a guttural groan from the back of his throat, slung an arm around her waist and hauled her back against himself.  
            “I’m sorry, varpet.  I was trying not to wake you.”  
            “You were trying to slip away like a thief in the night,” he grumbled as he cuddled her close.  
            “It’s morning,” she pointed out, still trying to squirm away.  
            He lifted his head and glanced towards the window.  “Can’t be.  It’s still dark.”  The movement of her body against his was making him hard; he could tell the moment she noticed.  
            “Mornings are always dark in winter.  Ezio, please.  I don’t want to be late,” she protested as he thrust two fingers inside her.  Her body was immediately responsive – tight and wet and _tempting_.  
            “The others will understand, mogliettina; you’ve got a husband to please,” he mumbled, slurping kisses down the side of her neck and encouraging her to spread her legs.  “Let me make love to you.  I’ll be gentle.”  
            “Please, be quick,” she replied, breath hitching when he caught her nipple between his teeth.  “I don’t want to be late.”  
            “It’ll take however long it takes to bring your love down,” he told her between kisses.  “God, I want your sweet figa.  Are you ready for my uccellone, mogliettina?”  
            She nodded and gripped his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut.  
            He frowned.  _That’s not how it should be_.  He liked the intimacy of eye contact during sex.  
            “Hey,” he murmured, nuzzling against her cheek.  “Open your eyes.  I love your pretty green eyes.”  
            Obediently her eyes opened.  “Yes, varpet.”  
            He sighed and then kissed her, cupping and caressing her breasts, sucking the sensitive undersides until dark love bites formed.  He liked to mark his women.  He liked knowing that beneath her clothes Taline would have the marks he had made with his mouth, bright as summer berries, on intimate parts of her body.  He wanted to mark the insides of her thighs, the base of her spine, the backs of her knees – places only a lover would touch.  Cristina had _hated_ him leaving love bites on her body and had done her best to erase them before getting dressed; Taline didn’t seem to mind and often left them until they faded on their own.  He nibbled his lips along the back of her neck and she shakily moaned against him.  
            “You like that?”  
            “Yes, varpet.”  
            “If you have a thrill for me, I’ll finish inside you,” he promised.  “Do you want me to give you a baby, mogliettina?”  
            “Yes.  Yes, I want that,” she choked out, clutching his hand and intertwining their fingers.  “I want to hold a child with your eyes in my arms.  I want to teach them my languages and watch you play with them.  I want that so much, varpet.”  
            His throat was tight as he swallowed unsteadily.  “I want that too.”  He kissed her.  She opened her mouth to him the moment the tip of his tongue brushed against her lips, and he kissed her deeply, searchingly, enjoying her permissiveness and unschooled passion.  He broke their kiss, greedily gasping for breath, as he caressed her.  “Sweet, merciful Jesus, I want that so much – a child with my eyes and your smile – please, mogliettina, let me make love to you.”  
            “Yes, please Ezio, please-”  
            She cried when he took her, twisting her fingers in his hair as she sobbed against his chest.  He found her tears unsettling, and that might have helped him last longer than he would have otherwise.  Still, it did not take him all that long.  The aftershocks of his intense orgasm washed over him in shuddering shivers.  He made sure she came before him, which she did with a startled gasp as her muscles tightly squeezed him in a fluttering grip.  He held her afterwards, stroking her hair and kissing the salty trails left by her tears.  Her hands wandered, finding and tracing the scars past contracts had left on his body.  
            “I’m going to be late,” she reminded him softly as she cuddled closer.  
            “We both are,” he replied with a regretful groan.  “We need a holiday, somewhere with beaches and sunshine and warm water.  Somewhere with enough privacy that we can make love whenever we want, wherever we happen to be.”  
            “All of the world is at war, varpet,” she said softly.  “I don’t think there’s anywhere for us to go on a holiday like that.”  
            He smoothed her hair, admiring how soft and silky it was.  “We could go to the south coast.  Would you like to see the Arabian Sea, mogliettina?”  
            “You don’t speak Farsi – neither of us really do – won’t that make going on holiday to the south coast difficult?”  
            He groaned.  “You’re right.  Damn Persians.”  
            “Aren’t you Persian?” she asked coyly.  
            “Only half.”  He smiled down at her and she returned his gaze with an impish smile of her own.  He liked it when she was flirty and playful, when she took obvious delight in his company.  Her moods were so mercurial – quips and kisses and flirting touches one moment, silence and wide-eyed with fear the next, and then forced cheerful chatter and tightly coiled nerves the moment after.  He didn’t understand her.  
            “Would that that stupid kāfir Mussolini never dragged Italy into another ugly kuffār war,” he sighed.  “It makes it so much harder to stroll the streets and enjoy the sights.  I want you to see how beautiful Italy is before we have to move back.  I’d like to take you to Syracuse in Sicilia.  We could rent a little house by the beach.  Or maybe somewhere smaller and more remote, like Malta.  We could have spent our holiday on a boat, hoping from port to port, visiting different sunny beaches, until we find one that convinces us to stay for a while if it weren’t for these kuffār and their barbarous war.  At least the magic using ones _try_ to keep their conflicts to themselves.”  
            “We could go to the Black Sea,” she suggested.  “We could stay in Ordu, it’s on the coast, and, you know, I speak Turkish.”  
            He smiled and traced her lips with the pad of his thumb.  “Yeah, we can do that someday, someday soon even, but our first trip is going to have to be to Roma.  My mother and uncle are both demanding to meet you.”  
            “Will they like me?” she asked shyly, lightly running her fingertips over his chest, carefully avoiding her signature.  
            “My mother will love you,” he assured her, trailing his fingertips down her throat to trace the flowing lines of his signature scarred into her chest.  He didn’t understand how it worked, but it felt really good when they touched each other’s marriage scars – a warm tingling sensation, similar to the afterglow of a particularly satisfying orgasm, comforting, soothing – he could feel it in his scar when he touched hers, she probably felt it as well when she touched his.  He’d felt a faint tingling in his scar from time to time when he had been away and wondered if she was tracing his signature and thinking of him.  He hoped so; he liked the thought of being missed.  
            “And your uncle?”  
            His jaw tightened.  She noticed and her fingers stilled, tantalizingly close to his scar.  _He will be less than pleased_ , he thought grimly, but he knew better than to say _that_ to his wife.  
            “Uncle Mario is glad that I’ve taken a wife.  The Auditores need heirs,” he finally said.  He knew it wasn’t what she had wanted to hear, but he didn’t want her to be surprised or hurt if his uncle’s reception turned out to be less than entirely enthusiastic and welcoming.  
            “Oh,” she replied in a small voice.  She sounded disappointed and hurt.  
            He immediately regretted his honesty and decided to make it abundantly clear to his mother and uncle that anything short of glowing acceptance of his wife would be unacceptable.  He doubted his mother would need any incentive beyond the promise of future visits and grandchildren to behave herself, but he’d need to come up with a sufficiently severe threat to ensure his uncle’s best behavior.  He said quick prayers to Saint Margaret of Antioch and Saint Dorothy, and then another to Saint Jude, just to cover all his bases.  
            “Uncle Mario is just a bit of a rough diamond, mogliettina,” he hastily explained as she slid out of bed.  “I’m sure he’ll warm to you in no time.”  _He had damn well better_.  
            His uncle and grandmother had objected to his relationship with Cristina because she wasn’t a member of the Order.  Ostensibly, their objection to Taline would be the same, but he knew that that would only be the polite front for their deeper and more voraciously held objections to his new wife: that she wasn’t Catholic, Italian, or even a proper European.  His stomach twisted with the familiar rage he felt every time he thought of how his mother had been, and to a lesser extent continued to be, treated by his father’s family.  _I won’t allow them to act like that to Taline_.  
            “We’re going to be late, varpet,” she said over her shoulder on her way to the bathroom.  
            _That could have gone better, you stupid stronzo_.  
            He swore under his breath and kicked the covers off.  Taline was right; they were both going to be late.  


            “You’re late.”  
            “I know.  I’m sorry.  I was taking care of something with my wife,” he replied with a quick apologetic grimace at Kadija’s tone.  
            “I’m sure,” she drawled, the words hanging between them in a frosty plume of breath.  
            His eyes narrowed.  He resented the dry cold air, acerbic with wood fire smoke, the way the snow crunched like small bones underfoot and blindingly refracted the winter-weak early morning sunlight.  Already the training grounds were swarming with activity, and had been for the last several hours, at least; Alamūt’s training grounds were rarely, if ever, empty.  
            Kadija smiled opaquely.  
            “We were discussing our upcoming visit to Roma; Mother’s been nagging to meet Taline.  She also wants _you_ to _honor your family obligations_ and come as well,” he added with a childish surge of satisfaction when he saw Kadija’s smile flicker.  
            “She gets either me or Altaïr; Aunt Maria knows perfectly well that Alamūt cannot spare us both at the same time,” she snapped.  Her tone suggested she’d repeatedly had this conversation with his mother.  He sympathized with her frustration; his mother was nothing if not tenacious.  
            “How convenient,” he said sardonically, turning to run his eyes over the group of students he suspected Kadija was planning to foist on him for the day.  They looked young, really young, like under-seventeens.  _Of-fucking-course_.  His previous moment’s sympathy evaporated; nobody especially liked training groups of underage Assassins.  Usually they were assigned to Veterans recovering from injuries, who were unable to train themselves, because they didn’t receive actual training, just activities to build and maintain endurance and fitness, basic self-defense.  Mostly he’d just be supervising to make sure they didn’t injure themselves or each other being stupid or goofing off; it was, essentially, glorified babysitting.  
            “Not especially,” Kadija shrugged.  “Altaïr and I have been wanting to go back to Zanzibar together for a couple years now.  Aaliyah took us once when we were children.  We remember it looking like Eden; the sand was as fine as confectioner’s sugar and the water was clear bright turquoise.”  
            His cousins had always shared a closeness verging on codependence.  He cringed at the thought of going on vacation with just Mari – they’d kill each other before a week passed – but Altaïr and Kadija loved spending time together.  Even Altaïr’s obsessive love for Sirocco didn’t seem to come between them.  They almost always ate together and synched their training schedules.  They even accompanied the other when one of them was bathing after returning from a contract.  To be honest, _that_ creeped him out a little; he couldn’t imagine feeling comfortable scrubbing himself clean after a contract in front of another person, not even his wife, it somehow seemed too intimate.  That particular quirk had sparked some nasty rumors that anyone who knew either of them could tell were false; Kadija had no interest in men and Altaïr was uninterested in sex – with anyone but Sirocco, of course.  He’d count himself lucky if he and Taline managed to be half as comfortable with each other as Altaïr and Kadija were.  
            “Zanzibar, huh?  I’ve been trying to come up with someplace to take Taline.  I think a holiday would help bring the sparkle back to her eyes,” he hummed thoughtfully.  
            “I suspect your melancholy wife would be far happier with a baby than a holiday,” she replied acerbically.  “Maybe you should focus more on that.”  
            He gritted his teeth and reminded himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t swear at Kadija in front of students.  Then he started mentally reciting saints until he felt less of a desire to throw something at her.  It took a while.  
            Kadija’s smile was ever so slightly smug.  “As much as I’d really love to stay and chat, we’ve both got work to do.  I assume you’re not too hung over to manage 30 or so under-seventeens?” she airily swept her hand in the general direction of the milling teenagers.  
            “I’m not hung over,” he stiffly informed her.  _Not much, at least_.  
            “Excellent,” she replied brightly.  “I’ll leave you to it then.  Your wife is going to be teaching some of them this afternoon; I’m sure she’d appreciate it if they were too tired to act out.”  She gave him an ironic two fingered kuffār-style salute before striding away.  
            He sighed and turned towards his temporary students.  “All right.  Let’s get started.  Partner up.”  
            Some of them groaned.  
            “Now,” he barked.  He was going to make damn sure they didn’t have the breath to groan at him again.  


            His eyes had thoroughly glazed over in boredom when he caught sight of Altaïr striding towards him.  He knew that walk well enough to know it boded nothing pleasant for him. _Porca puttana_.  
            “How is Taline?” Altaïr asked, not bothering with preliminary niceties.  Ezio felt a sharp flash of annoyance at his autocratic tone.  
            “Buongiorno, cousin!  I slept well, thank you.  Yes, it is cold, but not usually so for this time of year,” he replied with exaggerated politeness.  Altaïr had crossed his arms over his chest while Ezio was speaking and was silently studying him with a slight frown.  
            “You have not slept well; there are shadows under your eyes,” he finally replied, tone flat and matter of fact.  
            “Goddamn it, Altaïr-” he swore.  
            “Are you having trouble sleeping?” his cousin interrupted, seemingly unconcerned with Ezio’s increasing and obvious annoyance.  
            “No,” he snapped.  “My wife has been keeping me busy.”  
            “Busy how?  She hasn’t looked very well lately.  Has she been ill?”  
            He swore heartily in Italian, drawing more than a few wide-eyed stares from the students he was supposed to be supervising.  _Goddamn it Altaïr, anyone else would have known to read between the lines and take a hint_.  
            “Get back to training,” he barked at his milling students.  “I didn’t say you could stop.”  A few of the bolder ones shot disgruntled looks in his direction, others rolled their eyes when they thought he wouldn’t see.  _Fucking teenagers_.  He waited, gritting his teeth, until the last of his students had gone back to running the training course he’d set them before turning back to Altaïr.  He cast a silence around them as an additional precautionary measure.  He’d always had a knack for silencing spells, even other Masters struggled to break the silences he cast.  The gossips would just have to dig deeper for fodder.  
            “You know she lost the baby, right?” he said, keeping his voice low.  
            “Yes.”  
            He was more annoyed than surprised.  _Of course he already knows, when doesn’t he know my personal business as soon as or before I do_.  He reminded himself not to swear again, one outburst was more than enough for the day.  
            “That’s why she hasn’t been very well lately,” he snapped.  _Obviously_.  
            Altaïr tilted his head with a thoughtful frown.  “She seems to have taken the loss rather badly.”  
            “Yes.”  _Thank you for stating the obvious_.  
            “Are you trying to give her another?”  
            He was not entirely successful at disguising his incredulous laugh as a cough.  
            “It’s not polite to ask you that, is it?” Altaïr asked slowly.  
            “No, habibi, it’s not,” he chortled.  “But it’s okay, I’m not offended.  Please tell me you don’t ask everyone wildly inappropriate personal questions like that.”  
            “It isn’t a _wildly inappropriate_ question,” Altaïr retorted.  
            “Yeah, it is,” he corrected him with a smile.  
            “Besides, why would I?  I don’t care about most people’s personal lives,” Altaïr continued with a sharp shrug as he watched Ezio’s students.  
            His laughter died on his lips at Altaïr’s response.  His cousin’s bluntness was, as always, both refreshingly direct and extremely disconcerting; Altaïr had a knack for unselfconsciously saying uncomfortable truths.  He wondered if, aside from Sirocco, there was anyone Altaïr really cared about outside the family, if he had any actual friends.  It was a depressing thought and he immediately felt guilty.  _I’m sure he has friends, no one is that alone_.  
            “Is everything all right?” Altaïr queried, leveling a shrewd look at him.  
            “Yeah,” he rasped.  “I’m alright.  It’s a sensitive subject…” he bit his lip and turned back to watching his students.  A few were slacking off, but he didn’t have the stomach to discipline them at the moment.  “You don’t think… you don’t think she lost the baby because she’s unhappy, do you?”  
            His parents’ marriage haunted him.  He had few fond memories of his father, mostly because his parents inevitably fought whenever Giovanni was home; he and Federico usually ended up hiding at the top of the stairs, or under the covers in Fredo’s bed, while their parents fought in two, sometimes three, languages and threw things at each other.  By the time Mari was born, Giovanni had completely moved out of the family home and Ezio only saw him on special occasions like holidays and Fredo’s birthday, sometimes on trips to Lucca or when Uncle Mario would come pick him up for a visit to the Roma Motherhouse, but Giovanni wasn’t always there for his visits.  He sometimes wondered if he would have noticed Giovanni’s death at all if Fredo hadn’t died with him.  
            Altaïr braced his hands against the training ring’s top rail and meticulously stretched.  The amount of time his cousin spent mulling over his question made Ezio incredibly uncomfortable.  Altaïr usually took a long time to answer when he was going to make an effort to be tactful; it was never a good sign.  
            “I don’t know.  Have you asked Asad?”  
            Ezio almost sighed in relief; Altaïr’s attempts at tact were painfully embarrassing for everyone involved.  “No, I haven’t asked him.”  He shrugged.  “It’s family business, it’s it?”  
            “Yes,” Altaïr agreed.  “But it’s also a medical question.  I wish Aunt Bernice had not fallen, she was a very good medic.  Did you know she specialized in pediatrics?”  
            “No, I didn’t know that,” he replied, somewhat surprised Altaïr had brought up their aunt; his cousin rarely talked about the family they had lost.  “I hardly remember her, but you must have known her well, being so close to Mal.”  
            “She delivered me.  She was the only medic Mother would let treat me unattended.  It was a terrible thing when she died.  I had never seen grown men cry like that before.  It frightened me.”  
            Ezio swallowed uncomfortably.  He’d been too young when Bernice died to remember much about his mother’s older sister, but he remembered what it had been like when Aaliyah died.  His mother had been mad with grief, screaming and crying for hours and hours before collapsing and sleeping like the dead, only to wake and start grieving again.  Fredo had had to take care of him and Mari because their father’s family didn’t dare approach Maria’s anguish, even to look after the three of them.  It was the only time he remembered his father accompanying them to Alamūt, and he returned to Roma before they did.  The Assassins of Alamūt had never liked his father, and they were even less accepting than usual of this outsider to their shared loss.  It had been so hard to face Altaïr and Kadija, their faces hardened and blank with a grief he couldn’t even begin to comprehend until years later, after Fredo and his father didn’t come back.  
            “We need another medic in the family,” he said awkwardly, unsure how else to respond to what Altaïr had just said.  “Either Mari or Kadija needs to marry one, since you and I are out.”  
            Altaïr smiled wryly.  “It’s all on Mari then.  Kadija will not marry any man.”  
            “You should talk to her about that,” he said carefully.  “I’m sure there must be someone she could… come to some sort of _arrangement_ with.”  
            “You go ahead and try telling her that.”  
            He _mostly_ bit back his annoyance.  “Fine.  I’ll manage your sister if you manage mine.”  
            Altaïr flinched at that and abruptly looked away, face hard and gaze distant.  _Something struck a nerve_.  He couldn’t be sure what, exactly.  His cousin was so damnably moody he was never completely sure what would or wouldn’t get under his skin.  
            “Kadija does not need to be _managed_ , and Maria cannot _be_ managed,” Altaïr replied.  
            He suddenly understood what had rubbed Altaïr the wrong way.  
            “That wasn’t your fault,” he said quickly.  
            “I have no desire to discuss the matter.”  
            _Of course you don’t, you stubborn stronzo_.  
            “Mari has always been difficult.  Her performance on that test is not a reflection of your abilities as a Master,” he continued, ignoring the tension mounting in his cousin’s shoulders with every word he spoke.  
            “I said, I don’t want to talk about it,” Altaïr snapped.  “And don’t be stupid.  That test was less her failure than mine, as far as Al Mualim is concerned at least.”  
            “But he’s assigned you a new student-”  
            “Whom I should be focusing on training,” Altaïr interrupted, tone frosty and painstakingly polite.  “Excuse me.”  He strode away before Ezio could respond.  
            He sighed and turned back to watching his students.  _That could have gone better, you fessacchione_.  


            His wife wasn’t in the main room of their quarters when he returned from the training grounds.  After the underage Assassins he’d overseen in the morning, he’d trained a mixed group of Novices and Apprentices all afternoon.  He’d gone a round with each before pairing them up to practice the skills they needed to focus on because, as strangers to him, he didn’t have a good enough working knowledge of their individual aptitudes to properly pair them up so no one got hurt.  He was a little sore, but it felt good to be really working again.  
            “Taline?” he called as he strode towards their bedchamber, unfastening his training gear as he went.  
            “I’m here, varpet.”  She was huddled in the armchair by the window, wrapped in the comforter from their bed.  A quick glance immediately revealed that she’d been crying.  
            “Taline!  What’s the matter?” he demanded as he swiftly closed the distance between them.  “What’s happened?”  
            “Taghrid’s pregnant,” she whispered.  “Her baby is due in the summer.”  
            “Oh mogliettina,” he murmured as he carefully brushed the pads of his thumbs across the tear trails on her cheeks.  He didn’t have to be told that their baby would have been due in the summer; he’d done the math while he’d been away on contract, dreaming and hoping that he’d managed to plant a child in her before he’d left.  She started crying again – jagged, broken sobs his heart ached to hear.  
            “She said I should ask you to give me a baby so our children would be close in age.  So they could play together as they grow up,” she choked out, hiding her face in her hands.  
            “I’m sure she didn’t-”  
            “She doesn’t know that I lost the baby you gave me.  That it’s my fault, not yours, that our children won’t be close in age.  I lost him.  I lost him and-”  
            “Hush,” he commanded softly, pulling her hands away from her face and forcing her to meet his eyes.  “None of that.”  He kissed her gently, at first, and then more insistently when she hesitantly responded.  It didn’t take much to ignite his passion; his desire for her was always simmering, just below the surface, ready to burst into blistering flame at any available opportunity.  She rarely said “no” to him, always yes – _yes varpet, I’d like that_ – and he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get enough of her.  
            “Ezio-” she managed to gasp between kisses.  
            “Yeah?” he replied distractedly as he pushed her skirt up.  
            She bit her lip and blushed, sliding her eyes down his chest as she fidgeted nervously.  
            He smiled and nuzzled her neck playfully.  “Did you want to ask me something?”  
            “Yes,” she whispered.  She cradled his face in her hands, fingertips gently stroking his cheeks.  “Be gentle with me, please, varpet?”  She nipped her teeth against her bottom lip again and watched him through the fans of her lashes.  
            _Yes, oh god, yes.  
_             He brushed his lips against hers.  “Like this?”  He unfastened one of her stockings and slowly slid the gossamer fabric off her leg.  “Or like this?”  He pressed kisses against the instep of her foot, the hollow of her ankle, the inside of her thigh.  
            “Yes, please.”  Her breath hitched as he sucked, leaving a mark high up on the inside of her thigh.  
            “Undress us, mogliettina,” he murmured.  “Start with yourself.  Show me your pretty breasts and sweet figa.  Show me everything that’s mine.”  He removed her other stocking and trailed kisses down her leg.  
            She blushed, but obeyed, unbuttoning her blouse and slipping it off her shoulders before dropping it over the side of the armchair.  She hooked her fingers under the straps of her brassier and hesitated, nibbling her bottom lip nervously.  
            “Take it off,” he urged her.  “Take everything off.  I love your body, love looking at it, love touching it.  Be a good mogliettina, and do as your husband tells you, Taline.”  
            “Ezio,” she protested with yet another fiery blush.  “I feel silly taking my clothes off while you just watch.”  
            “You want me to give you a baby?” he asked, trying to play his impatience off as playfulness.  
            “Yes,” she whispered.  
            “Then do as I say and undress us,” he sighed.  “Don’t make me do it myself.”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she whispered.  
            His breath quickened at the sight of her bare breasts and he reflexively rubbed the heel of his palm across the front of his trousers.  _Patience, Ezione_.  She kept her eyes averted from him as she removed the remainder of her clothing.  She hesitated, violently shivering in the chilly air, before timidly reaching for his clothing.  
            “Undress me quickly; you’re shaking like a leaf.  We don’t want you getting sick, mogliettina,” he rasped.  _And the wait is killing me_.  She started to push his shirt up, slowly exposing his stomach, before he impatiently pulled it the rest of the way off.  “I said _quickly_ , Taline.”  
            Her hands were shaking as she fumbled at the waistband of his training şalvar.  “I’m sorry.”  She sounded close to tears.  
            He forced himself to take a deep breath.  _Don’t be selfish, you stronzo_.  
            “Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, catching the point of her chin between his fingers and tilting her face up to his.  She was clearly upset, a breath away from crying, and he hated the man reflected in her eyes.  _Beast.  Brute.  Monster._   “Go get warm under the covers.  I’ll get the heat on and take care of the rest of my clothes.”  
            “Yes, varpet,” she whispered, hesitating a moment before climbing into their bed.  He moved the comforter from the armchair back to their bed and left it for Taline to arrange as he strode over and twisted valves until the radiator hissed to life.  
            “Do you feel up to going down for dinner or should I have the elves bring you a tray?” he asked, rummaging through the dresser for a clean kurta.  
            “Could we-” she hesitantly nipped her teeth against her bottom lip and his cock twitched at the sight “-could we have dinner together here?  Just the two of us, maybe in bed?”  
            “Yeah, we can do that.”  He smiled and leaned over to press a kiss against the side of her neck.  “I’ll have to see about getting more contracts to keep you in this style.”  
            “We don’t have to,” she said hurriedly.  “Not if it’s too expensive.”  
            “No, it’s fine, mogliettina,” he assured her.  “You’ve had a rough day and I like having intimate dinners together.  It’ll be harder once we’re back in Roma to have dinner with just ourselves.”  He kissed her and left the room to summon an elf.  
            The elves were generally quick to respond to his summons and that evening was no different.  He suspected it was mostly to do with Taline; the elves at Alamūt were especially partial to breeding women and he had no doubt that they had known she was pregnant, and that she’d suffered a miscarriage.  The elf who responded to his summons that evening impatiently indicated its understanding before he had even finished his request.  Heavily tattooed with blue indigo, the Order’s house elves were entirely silent; they communicated with the Assassins solely through a sort of sign language.  He wondered, from time to time, if they could even speak at all and what their voices would sound like.  The elf kept repeating an unfamiliar gesture and then looking at him expectantly.  
            “My wife is hungry.”  He made the gesture he knew meant _to eat_.  The elf impatiently nodded to show it understood and then repeated the unfamiliar gesture.  “I don’t know what that means,” he said in exasperation.  
            “She’s asking if I’m pregnant,” Taline said, from the doorway of their room.  She had thrown on his robes like a dressing gown and was leaning against the doorframe, watching him with a slight smile.  
            “Get back to bed,” he ordered, flapping a distracted hand at her.  “I’ll be in shortly for a pre-dinner thrill.”  Taline ducked back into their bedroom, out of sight.  He turned back to the elf, who was watching him with shrewd silvery eyes.  It repeated the gesture.  
            “Dio mio, you’re a one track record,” he sighed and made the gesture for _soon_.  “Okay?  Happy now?  We need to eat-” he used the accompanying gesture, even though he knew that the elves understood spoken commands perfectly “-to make babies.  _Please_.”  If the house elves were being this bad, he _really_ dreaded taking Taline to Italy if she didn’t conceive again quickly; his mother wouldn’t be satisfied with vague promises and he couldn’t just order her to go away.  
            “Yes, _thank you_ ,” he added sarcastically with a relieved sigh when the elf nodded and bowed.  He watched it vanish with an electric crackle and knocked back one of the draughts Asad had given him before going to check on Taline.  _Never hurts to be prepared_ , he reasoned; they both wanted a baby after all.  
            “Were you bullying the elf?” she asked.  She had gotten back into their bed and he noted with satisfaction that his robes had been carefully draped over the back of the armchair.  _She really is a good little wife – don’t mess this up, stronzo_.  
            “I’m hardly the one who was doing the bullying.  Everyone wants us to have a baby,” he replied wryly.  “Even the house elves are joining in.”  
            “Not everyone…”  She hesitated and dropped her eyes, concentrating on smoothing virtually nonexistent wrinkles out of their bedding.  
            “Who?”  
            “Mari doesn’t like me, doesn’t like that you married me-”  
            “She’ll get over it,” he brusquely interrupted.  “Besides, she can hardly throw stones – not with the questionable boyfriend she’s been hiding.”  
            That still rankled, made even worse by the fact that his sister’s boyfriend didn’t really seem half bad – for a Slav.  Actually, their relatives back in Italy would probably be more accepting of Hiro – who was Catholic, an Assassin, and from a thoroughly respectable Assassin family – than Taline; he bristled at that.  _It would serve them right if Mari’s the one to make the ‘better’ marriage while their precious family line continues through my ‘unsuitable’ wife_.  
            “Ezio-” she started reprovingly.  
            “What?  Fine,” he sighed.  “I don’t understand why you’re so quick to defend her if she’s always so unkind to you.”  
            “Because she’s important to you,” she replied softly.  She kept her eyes lowered, studying her hands.  
            His usual loquaciousness deserted him and he just stood there staring at her in the uncomfortable roaring silence that followed her unexpected response.  There was a loud crack from the other room, signaling the arrival of their meal.  He cleared his throat and it sounded grotesquely loud in the hush that had fallen between them.  
            “I don’t deserve you,” he finally managed to say, voice raspy and rough around the edges from an emotion he wasn’t prepared to identify.  “I really, really don’t.”  
            “Ezio, stop,” she protested, finally looking up to meet his eyes.  
            “I’m not a very good person-” he swallowed, guilt burning the back of his throat like bile.  _It was just the once_ , he reminded himself.  _It didn’t mean anything_.  He immediately felt even worse for dismissing Lucia like that.  
            The elf carrying their dinner tray entered the room, accompanied by another holding a letter – addressed in his mother’s hand.  _Cazzo_.  The second elf conjured a small side table from thin air and then approached Taline and proffered the letter.  
            “Is that from my mother?  Give it here,” he demanded, extending his hand expectantly.  
            “But it’s addressed to me,” Taline said wonderingly as she accepted the letter and cracked the impressively ornate red-wax seal – the one his mother used when she wanted to convey an extra layer of authority and impress the unwary.  It raised the specter of a dire foreboding.  “Why would she write to me?”  
            _Why indeed?_   He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the gathering tension before it gave him a headache.  He wished his mother would leave Taline out of the petty machinations between herself and his uncle.  
            “She’s invited us to Villa Auditore for Easter, and wants to make arrangements for our marriage to be blessed by your family’s priest,” Taline exclaimed.  She looked up at him with shining eyes.  “She says she wants to meet me.”  
            “I told you that this morning,” he reminded her with a flash of annoyance.  “Did you not believe me?”  He salaamed to the elves and then shooed them out of the room.  “She’ll expect you to be heavy with a child by then; Easter is not until April this year.”  
            “Maybe I will be,” she replied, keeping her eyes on his mother’s letter as a blush heated her cheeks.  “Or at least with child.  I conceived so quickly last time.  The hekim didn’t seem to think that would be a problem for us.”  
            “That’s good to hear.”  He approached her silently, like a predator, skinning off his clothes as he went until he was completely naked except for his small clothes and the blades strapped to his forearms.  Her breath caught when she noticed him looming over her.  
            “I’m a little sore, from earlier,” she murmured, staring at the way his erection was straining towards her through the thin fabric of his zir-šalvar with wide, anxious eyes.  “Please be gentle with me.”  
            “You could tell me the way you like it best,” he suggested, brushing her hair back over her shoulders.  “Or we could experiment, maybe try a new position, something different?”  
            “Like what, varpet?”  Her eyes briefly flicked up to his.  
            He reached over and caressed her face; she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his palm.  His heart swelled in his chest.  _My god, she’s tiny_.  
            “You could let me taste you.  I love your figa,” he cajoled.  Her eyes snapped open and she jerked her face away from the caress of his hand.  
            “Ezio, no, please.  I don’t like that,” she protested as she recoiled.  
            He stifled a frustrated sigh.  “How do you know you don’t like it when you haven’t let me try?”  
            “You did.”  She had scooted away from him until her back was pressed up against the headboard of their bed and was fidgeting nervously, obviously embarrassed.  “The, the first time we – on our wedding day.”  
            He had to think for a moment before he remembered.  “I started to,” he admitted.  “But you wouldn’t let me continue.  If you’d given me the chance do that a little longer you would have liked it.  I could have given you such a thrill; I’m pretty good at doing that, just so you know.”  
            “It makes me uncomfortable,” she insisted.  
            Her stubbornness surprised him.  He was tempted to keep arguing, but he could tell that even if he convinced her to let him do what he wanted, he wouldn’t really have won anything; she might let him go down on her, but she wouldn’t let herself enjoy it.  He swallowed his disappointment.  _Someday she’ll let me, and when she’s ready, I’ll make sure she loves it_.  He had no doubts.  
            “Okay, mogliettina,” he soothed as he closed the space between them.  “We won’t try that tonight.”  
            “Promise?” she asked him, clutching the comforter tightly against her breasts.  
            “Yeah, I promise.  Let me in bed with you?  It’s cold out here,” he coaxed.  
            “Bring dinner with you,” she said, jutting her chin towards the covered tray.  “I’m hungry.”  
            “Then I’ve got an appetizer for you right here,” he grinned, sliding one hand into his zir-šalvar to pull himself out.   
            She blinked and went a little pale at the sight of his erect member.  “You want me to do that now?”  
            “Yeah, you make me so assatanato, I can’t wait until after dinner.  Especially since you won’t let me give you a slinguata.”  
            “Will you finish in my mouth?” she asked cautiously as she rose to her knees and reached for his hips.  
            “We’re trying for a baby,” he reminded her.  “Your saliva will help me enter you, and your mouth feels so good it’ll help me finish faster; which is something I know you want.”   
            “Yes, varpet,” she murmured before taking him in her mouth.  
            It felt good, _really_ good.  He hummed low in his throat and rocked his hips, gently – at first – but then with increasing vigor, until she gagged when he hit the back of her throat.  He pushed her back onto the bed, catching hold of her wrists and holding them above her head with one hand as he thrust inside her, using the other to direct the magic he channeled through his blades that would force her orgasm.  He was starting to worry he wouldn’t be able to hold off his own climax long enough to trigger hers when he felt the telltale flutter of her body around him and he let himself go.  
            “Che bella sborrata,” he panted against her neck as he released her hands.  
            “What does that mean?”  
            “It means you did good.  Made me thrill so hard it’s bound to get you belly-full,” he replied with an indolent smile.  “Lift your hips, mogliettina, and cross your ankles over my lower back.”  He braced his hands on either side of her and shifted his hips, pressing himself in deeper.  
            She whimpered as she obeyed.  
            “Hey, it’s okay,” he soothed.  “We don’t want your hard work going to waste.  Just a little longer, Taline, I promise.  We want to make sure my seed has time to take root.”  
            She managed a jerky nod, thin-lipped and pale.  His heart ached at her obvious distress, but he didn’t know how else he was supposed to make sure she got pregnant.  He trailed kisses across her face and nibbled at her neck, trying to distract her from her discomfort while he slowly softened inside her.  A tremulous sob escaped her lips when he pulled out and she squeezed her thighs together.  He felt like such a brute.  
            “It’s okay, bellissima, you did real good,” he said, stroking her cheek.  “Let’s get some dinner inside you, yeah?”  
            “Yes please,” she murmured demurely.  “I’m very hungry, varpet.”  
            He stole a quick kiss before getting up to investigate the contents of the dinner tray the elves had left for them.  They had brought skewers of hot and sour prawns and a tureen of ash e reshteh – a soup full of noodles, beans, herbs and beet leaves, topped with mint oil, crunchy fried onions and sour kashk.  He moved the tray over to beside the armchair where he had found Taline when he came home.  
            “What are you doing, varpet?” she asked as he drew the comforter back off of their bed.  
            “Ash e reshteh may be a meal for lovers and new beginnings, but it is not something we can really eat in bed,” he explained as he carefully adjusted the comforter over the armchair.  “Come sit in my lap and I’ll bundle us up while we eat.  Come here Taline.”  He threw himself down on the armchair and reached for her.  She hesitated a moment before tiptoeing across the floor and crawling into his lap to cuddle against him.  He wrapped the comforter around the two of them and kissed her hungrily.  
            “I’m hungry, varpet,” she reminded him plaintively as his hand crept towards the wet heat between her thighs.  
            “Then I’ll feed you,” he murmured, working a prawn off of one of the skewers and bringing it to her lips.  “I want to feed you every bite.”  She finished the morsel and sucked the butter off his fingers.  
            “I’m so hungry, varpet,” she whispered, bringing a spoonful of soup to his lips.  He slurped it down appreciatively before grabbing at her hips.  
            “I’m hungry too, mogliettina.  I’m hungry for so many things,” he groaned, licking the butter from her fingers.  “Will you give me your figa for dessert?”  
            She huffed an uncomfortable laugh against his lips.  “You always want my figa-” she stumbled over the word, her pronunciation hesitating and uncertain.  
            “Yes,” he interrupted her fervently.  “I want it all the time.  I want to touch it, and taste it, and _fuck_ it, and I love that it’s mine.  That _you’re_ mine-” His fingers tangled in her hair as gripped her skull, pressing her mouth to his.  _Holy bloody passion of Christ almighty, she’s mine – rest of our lives, death is only the beginning, world without end – Mine_.  
            “Yes, Ezio.  I’m yours, all yours.  Only yours-” A small cry escaped her lips when he forced himself inside her.  
            “My god Taline, you feel so good,” he whispered against her skin.  
            “Please, finish quickly varpet,” she choked out.  
            “I don’t know that I can,” he panted, clinging to her desperately.  “I’ve pumped so much of my seed into you already I don’t think there’s any left.  Let’s just make love for the pleasure of it, okay mogliettina?”  
            “Then minet indz quickly so we can eat.  I’m hungry, varpet,” she whispered softly, tracing her fingers over his chest.  “Please.”  
            “Let me feed you.”  
            “Finish first, _please_ Ezio.”  
            He sighed and wrapped an arm around her hips to guide the gentle rocking motion of his thrusts.  She made a small, discomforted sound and leaned forward.  He pressed her hips back down, more firmly against his; he loved the feeling of just being inside her – so warm and tight and wet – even without his thrusting the spastic clenching of her body in response to his penetration would eventually be enough to milk an orgasm out of him.  
            “Does this hurt?” he asked her gently, stroking his thumb down her spine.  
            “Please, I’m hungry varpet,” she choked out, eyes brimming.  
            _Which means yes, I’m hurting her_.  He felt a hot flush of irritation that she wouldn’t just admit it, that she evaded answering even when he asked her point blank.  _Why won’t she tell me?  Why is everything guesswork and conjecture with her?_   He sank his teeth into his bottom lip and tightened his grip her hips as he abruptly pulled out.  
            “Fine.”  
            “Please don’t be angry-”  
            “I’m not angry,” he snapped.  “Why should I be angry, Taline?”  
            “Ezio-”  
            He silenced her with a hard kiss and then pressed prawns and enormous dark grapes between her teeth every time she opened her mouth to try to speak before handing her a cup of soup he’d filled with his blade.  She drank from it slowly, watching him over the rim as he picked at his food.  
            “Ezio-” she started hesitantly.  
            “All done?” he interrupted as he took the empty cup from her.  She nodded and he shifted her off his lap to get up.  “Good.  I’m going to wash up for bed – you probably should too – it’s been a long day.”  He left the room without waiting for her to reply.


	18. Altaïr: nightmare

            The morgue was empty.  Silent.  The air heavy with the smell of bleach and rotting meat and the hum of flies.  The flickering florescent light reflected dully off of glazed porcelain and cloudy metal.  He didn’t want to be there – wanted to be anywhere but there – but the Rafīk’s hand was hard on the back of his neck and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  
            _Altaïr…  
_             She was calling to him, calling him, and he didn’t want to answer, but she got so angry when he disobeyed and he was moving forward when every instinct was telling him to run away.  
            _Altaïr…  
_             The coroner looked like a ghoul, short and slight and skeletally thin, with unnaturally raven black hair and sunken eyes, sallow skin and a sinisterly straight pencil-thin mustache.  He was leading them down a nightmarishly narrow hallway, their footsteps echoing off the tiled walls and concrete floor, amplified and repeating into an army’s worth of marching feet and softly, beneath the noise, he could still hear her calling him.  The coroner stopped before an open doorway and then stepped aside, waiting for them to enter, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his once-white, splattered and stained lab coat.  
            “She’s just in there.”  
            He didn’t want to go in that room, digging the heels of the new shoes she’d bought him only a few days before into the smooth concrete floor as the Rafīk’s hard hand pushed him forward.  
            _Altaïr…_  
            There was only one occupied slab; a woman’s body obscured beneath a pale shroud of mosquito netting.  He didn’t want anyone to see her like that; he didn’t want see her like that.  
            “- and not a mark on her -” the coroner was saying, voice rusty and dry.  
            The contents of his stomach roiled – bitter black tea and the honey pistachio pastry she’d given him before she went out – his ears were ringing and his vision swam, dappled with darkness and anemic fluorescent light.  
            “- such a senseless waste of an extraordinarily handsome woman.  You said this is her son, yes?  He looks just like her-”  
            The coroner was reaching for the edge of the shroud and someone was screaming, jagged and raw like a lamb being slaughtered, and his throat hurt, his chest was burning, and the Rafīk was shaking him, shaking him.

 

            “Altaïr!  Altaïr!  Wake up, habibi.”  
            He jolted awake, struggling against the hands that gripped his shoulders, disoriented and throat burning with bile.  
            “Aunt Maria?” he croaked uncertainly, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.  He and Tārā had arrived in Rome late the previous evening and, as he usually did, had chosen to spend the night at his aunt’s home rather than at Rome’s Motherhouse.  It always pleased Aunt Maria when he made it a point to squeeze in a visit between contracts or assignments.  
            “Yes, Altaïr,” his aunt murmured soothingly, easing him back against the pillow and pulling the rumpled covers up over his chest.  “What were you dreaming about?”  
            He shook his head.  “Nothing, it was nothing.  I don’t remember.  I’m sorry I woke you.”  
            Maria sighed and brushed a loosened lock of hair out of her face.  “It wasn’t nothing.  She was my sister, Altaïr.  I feel it when she lingers.”  
            “Yes.”  He swallowed convulsively.  “It was Syria.  It’s always Syria.”  
            “Altaïr-”  
            He mulishly clenched his teeth and hugged the covers to his chest.  His aunt looked younger than her years, strong brows and stern mouth softened with concern and her dark hair loosely braided over one shoulder, the soft light of the lamp she had set on the bedside table was not strong enough to illuminate the gray that streaked her hair or the lines grief and bitter times had carved across her face.  Her arms were bare; she must have rushed to him, not even pausing to throw a dressing gown over the long white nightdress she slept in.  He realized he must have forgotten to cast a silencing ward around the room before he went to bed and he felt guilty for disturbing her.  
            Following her forced retirement as a fidā'ī, his aunt had taken over management of a struggling brothel and became a shadowbroker for the Order, training her newly acquired stable of whores to deftly ferret information and secrets out of their clients.  Under its ruthless and shrewd new madam, the brothel’s clientele had steadily improved to encompass nearly every sphere of power and influence, not only in Rome itself, but most of Italy as well.  The majority of the Order’s intelligence from area surrounding the Tyrrhenian Sea now came through his aunt, making her one of the Order’s most powerful shadowbrokers.  It was an almost fitting revenge against her detested brother-in-law that he was almost entirely dependent on the intelligence she provided.  
            “I’m sorry I woke you,” he repeated, staring up at the shadowy ceiling.  
            She sighed and he felt her weight shift on the bed as she pushed the pillow under his head aside and settled her back against the headboard.  She nudged his shoulder, encouraging him to rest his head on her lap.  
            “I’m not a child; I don’t need coddling,” he muttered, pressing his shoulders more firmly against the mattress, annoyed with how sullen and petulant he sounded even to his own ears.  
            “You and Mari, both too stubborn and proud for your own good,” his aunt chided softly.  “What harm is there in humoring me when there is no one else to see?”  
            He sighed and turned onto his side, cheek pillowed against her thigh.  Her clothes smelled of hyssop and cedar; comforting, familiar.  
            “Do you know why that memory is haunting you now?” she asked, carding a hand through his hair.  
            “No, Aunt Maria,” he replied.  He wondered if that memory would ever fade, if the sharp-edged clarity would soften over time, like his other memories of his mother.  It was inexplicably painful that his most vivid memory was of seeing her dead, while the sound of her voice and the feeling of her touch were slowly fading away.  
            “I’m sorry she didn’t get to see how you’ve grown up.  She’d be so proud of you,” Maria said softly.  
            “What is there to be proud of?” he demanded bitterly.  “I have hardly exceeded any expectations and spectacularly failed at others.”  
            “You are a Master, Altaïr, the youngest ever to achieve that rank,” his aunt reminded him fiercely.  “And more importantly, you are a good, decent, man – dependable, _honorable_ – and that is no small thing in this world.”  
            “I failed Malik.  I’m failing Hadassah,” he replied bluntly.  “And I will not be named Al Mualim’s successor because he feels that I have been _compromised_ by my relationship with Sirocco.”   
            “What’s this?” she asked sharply, her expression momentarily reminding him so strongly of his mother it almost hurt to breathe.  “You have not failed anyone, Altaïr, and Al Mualim is a fool if he doubts your commitment to the Order.”  
            He slung his arm around her legs in a quick, hard hug.  “Be careful; it is dangerous to be disloyal.”  
            “I know.”  
            She gently smoothed her hand over his shoulder, lingering over the sunken circular scar where he’d been shot in the back during a contract in Falluja.  He’d been young, careless and sloppy; he hadn’t checked that the area was clear before dropping his barriers to eliminate the target.  He’d been lucky the shooter’s aim was bad, lucky Malik was with him and he hadn’t been alone; if things had been even slightly different he probably would have died.  He shifted slightly so he could look up at his aunt.  She was staring into the distance, expression empty and serene; the waxy-pale shrapnel scars scattered across her upper arm seemed to glow in the soft lamplight.  His mother had had shrapnel scars too, she and his aunt had been on a contract together when they’d gotten them, only hers had never faded like his aunt’s had.  
            “I love you, Aunt Maria,” he told her softly, feeling clumsy and awkward.  It felt unfair that words were so much harder for him than Ezio and Mari; he envied the ease with which they conveyed their emotions.  He felt the flash of tension through her muscles, heard the half-second hitch in her breath, things he only noticed because he’s been trained to his entire life.  
            “I love you too, habibi,” she murmured, smoothing his hair back from his brow with careful fingers.  “Is something the matter, something I should know about?”  
            “No.”  He hitched one shoulder awkwardly in a shrug.  “I wanted to tell you, so you’d know, just in case…” he trailed off uncertainly as he felt her muscles tense again.  “Aunt Maria?”  
            “There is no _just in case_ , Altaïr,” his aunt replied stonily.  “And besides, I already know.”  
            “But I wanted to tell you,” he insisted.  “Siro says it’s important to tell people – so they know for sure if they didn’t already, and to remind them in case they’ve forgotten.”  
            “Siro says,” Maria repeated with a sigh.  
            “She loves me; she tells me so often and it feels good.”  
            “She is a _succubus_ , Altaïr,” his aunt responded tersely.  “She feeds on lust, what can she possibly know of love?  I’m sure she’s very fond of you, in her own way, but she can’t possibly _love_ you the way you think she does; it’s not in her nature.”  
            He stayed silent, cheek pressed firmly against the side of his aunt’s thigh as a searing bud of pain burst into blossom inside his chest.  His heart knew that he and Sirocco loved each other deeply, but that certainty was weakening, fracturing, under the relentless gnawing doubt everyone around him was so intent on sowing.  The people he’d trusted, loved, looked up to and obeyed his whole life – Kadija, Aunt Maria, Al Mualim – how could they be wrong?  
            “Why am I so hard to love?” he asked softly, half afraid of how she was going to answer him.  
            “We’re all hard to love, habibi.  It’s a family trait.”  She sounded bitter, tired.  
            “Ezio isn’t hard to love,” he commented after a moment’s hesitation.  “And Federico too, everyone loved him.”  
            “They take after their father,” Maria sighed.  “Giovanni was easy to love, too easy.  He never had to learn love’s true value because it came to him so easily.  Figlio di una cagna barare.”  
            He didn’t understand the last part of what she said, but he didn’t really need to either; his aunt’s marriage had not been a particularly happy one.  
            “Do you ever miss him?”  
            “No.”  Maria’s expression hardened.  “That fool of a man got my son killed.  And himself,” she added as an afterthought.  “Left me alone in this _barbaric_ country with two children to raise.  Praise Allah for you and Malik; Gio left all the money to be managed by that _bastardo_ , Mario.  Mari and I would have died of neglect if we had to depend on that man.”  
            “I wish you’d come back to Alamūt.  We’d take care of you,” he coaxed.  
            “And what would I do there?  Sit around knitting socks?” she demanded with a dismissive snort.  “I’ve worked hard to build a life for myself here, habibi.  If I just leave everything, return to Alamūt, _they_ will have won.”  
            “Who?” he asked softly although he suspected he already knew who she meant; his aunt had a certain tone she only used when talking about her despised in-laws.  
            “That drunken bastardo Mario and his harpy of a mother, Claudia.  Vile, evil-minded old woman,” she added with a disgusted shudder.  “And besides, I can’t just abandon my girls, and Lucia, they need me.”  
            “Hadassah will need all the family around her that she has when I bring her to Alamūt.”  He knew using Malik’s daughter was a low move, but he wanted what was left of his family safe within the walls of the Order’s fortress; he couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to his aunt, all alone in Italy.  He already planned on Ezio permanently relocating to Alamūt, and he suspected Taline would be a willing, if not eager, ally in that endeavor.  
            “When you bring Hada home I’ll consider it,” his aunt replied as she slowly carded a hand through his hair.  “What is the real reason Mari failed her promotion to Mercenary, Altaïr?”  
            “I told you earlier this evening – I failed in my duty to ensure both that she was adequately prepared for the trial at hand and that she is prepared for the challenges and burdens of a higher rank – there is no other reason.”  He shifted his weight slightly off his shoulder and chewed the inside of his cheek.  He’d never had a student fail to advance; he still didn’t understand what had gone wrong, why Mari made such obviously bad choices.  He hated the faint taint of doubt that had dogged his decisions since then; that Al Mualim felt his judgment and dedication were compromised.  He wished his aunt would let the matter drop.  
            “I hope my daughter appreciates how adamantly you shield her from any blame for her own failures,” Maria replied, words clipped short and hard.  “Sometimes I think you shelter her too much, habibi.”  
            He harrumphed under his breath.  “And Kadija tells me to be kinder.  It seems that I’m always doing something wrong when it comes to Maria.”  
            “Enough.”  She gently tapped her palm against the side of his face.  “How is Ezio?  I can’t help worrying for him.”  
            “He’s... adapting,” Altaïr said guardedly.  “I don’t think his marriage is what he expected it to be.”  
            “That does not surprise me.”  His aunt sighed.  “How do you find his wife?”  
            “I like her.”  He hitched his shoulder in another shrug.  “She’s interesting.  I don’t know why Ezio hasn’t brought her to you yet, I think Taline would like that very much.  She seems very interested in meeting you.”  
            Maria smiled bitterly.  “Ezio knows what he’s doing; the Auditores will be outraged.  She’s not Italian.  Not Catholic.  Not even an Assassin.  His grandmother will be furious.  At least Cristina was two out of the three.”  
            “Taline will be a much better wife to him than Cristina – she _wants_ to be his wife and have his children,” he retorted.  
            “Peace Altaïr,” his aunt sighed.  “They’ll have no choice but to accept her – she’s their only hope of keeping Claudia’s _precious_ villa in their branch of the family; Ezio is his uncle’s only heir and she’s his wife.  But that doesn’t mean that they’ll be kind to her.”  Her fingers tightened on his shoulder.  “Promise me you’ll come when Ezio brings her here the first time.  I think she’ll appreciate a familiar face.”  
            He sat up and resettled on the bed with his back against the headboard, next to his aunt.  
            “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said softly.  “It isn’t my place.”  
            “Your place is with your family, Altaïr,” Maria replied sharply.  A tense silence hung between them for a long moment, then she sighed and pinched the point of his chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning his face towards her.  “You look so much like Aaliyah.  I don’t see you enough, habibi.  I miss speaking my own language.”  
            He twisted his chin out of her grip and tilted his head back to study the interplay of lamplight and shadow across the ceiling.  They’d been speaking Farsi, the language they almost always used when they spoke together.  He sometimes wondered why his aunt hadn’t taught it to Ezio and Mari, like she had Arabic.  He remembered his mother and aunt speaking Farsi together when they’d stop for a visit on the way home from one of her contracts.  Ezio and Fredo would pester him – and Malik, if he came along – to translate what they were saying.  Malik loved to make up wild translations, laughing at the expressions on their cousins’ faces as he spun more and more outrageous discussions between his aunts in the other room.  Altaïr always ended up giving him away – he had never been as good at improvisation as Malik had been – but Malik never stayed annoyed with him over it for long.  _Your mask needs work, Aquila.  You won’t make it far as a fidā'ī with a face that gives everything away_.  
            “At least you visit me more often than Kadija does,” his aunt continued her all too familiar grievance.  “How is she?  It’s been an age since I’ve seen her.”  
            He sighed; Kadija liked visiting Italy even less than he did.  “She’s been well – very busy – but doing very well.  Al Mualim is going to name her as his successor.”  
            “Is that so?”  His aunt’s lips parted in a hard sharp smile.  “Good.  It’s been far too long since a woman was Al Mualim.”  Maria contemplated the shifting shadows on the ceiling.  “Your mother would be so proud of her.”  
            “She would,” he agreed.  “Kadija deserves to become Al Mualim; she’s the strongest candidate.”  
            “Aside from you.”  
            “No.  She’s the strongest candidate, period.  She’s the best choice for the Order,” he corrected her softly.  “Not me.”  
            “Aaliyah raised you to become Al Mualim-”  
            “And then she died and I’ve had to find my way without her-” He clenched his teeth and tilted his chin back.  He hated how much it still hurt, even after so many years.  
            “Altaïr-”  
            “No.”  
            “So much like her,” Maria murmured so softly he almost couldn’t hear her words.  She sighed and intertwined her arm around his.  “Perhaps it’s best this way, for Hadassah.  We should find you a wife.”  
            “I don’t want a wife,” he replied, slitting a cautious look towards his aunt.  
            “You have to think about what would be best for Hadassah.  She needs a woman’s influence in her life, especially as she enters her teens,” Maria lectured him.  He swallowed a sigh at his aunt’s latest tactic in their longstanding argument.  
            “She’ll have Kadija.”  
            Maria’s mouth twisted as she exhaled loudly through her nose.  “I mean a woman who is a bit more … feminine.”  
            He rolled his eyes; he knew exactly what his aunt was trying to convey without outright saying it.  “Siro will also help me; she’s very _feminine_.”  
            “Sirocco is not a woman, Altaïr.  It’s _dangerous_ to keep forgetting that,” his aunt bit out.  It stung.  
            “Why does everyone assume that my care will be insufficient?” he demanded, fury creeping into his voice as he temper flared.  “I only ever had Mother, until she was taken away.  You raised Ezio and Maria essentially on your own, even before their father died.  The only thing your husband ever did for his children, aside from sire them, is get Fredo killed.  Hadassah will be fine with me, I would not be raising her in isolation – I have Kadija and Ezio and Taline and Maria to help me.  And Sirocco.”  
            “Altaïr – habibi – I know you’ll do your best for Hadassah, but I think it would be better for her if you were to marry,” she said softly.  “A nice girl, maybe one of the dā‘ī, someone to be home with her while you’re away and watch over her like a mother.”  
            “I will not marry,” he repeated, the temperature of his tone dropping in inverse proportion to his rising temper.  “Hada will have someone to watch over her like a mother once you return to Alamūt.”  
            His aunt sighed.  “You should still marry.  You’ll want children of your own someday.”  
            “I’ll never have children of my own.”  He swallowed his brimming frustration and anger shakily; he was tired of being pressured to marry.  “It has always been enough for me to be an uncle to Mal’s children.  I look forward to Ezio having children and being an uncle to them as well.  I don’t want a loveless arranged marriage.  I want to be with Siro.”  
            “Life seldom gives us the things we want,” Maria replied bitterly.  
            “I know,” he mumbled.  “But is it too much to be allowed just one thing in my life that is wholly mine?  I have nothing of my own, Aunt Maria – only my love for Sirocco.  Please, don’t tell me I must now give that up as well.”  
            “Altaïr-”  
            “Please, Aunt Maria,” he pleaded.  “Please don’t make me.”  
            “If it were up to me, I’d let you keep your lover as long as you wanted her.”  Her hand against his cheek was gentle.  “But we are Assassins, Altaïr, our choices are not our own.”  
            His chest hurt.  “You would see me left with nothing?  I’ll die without her.  Losing her will kill me.”  
            “No, habibi,” she insisted, hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.  “You’re stronger than that.”  
            Her eyes were dark and deep, just like his mother’s had been, and he was falling, falling into that darkness, weightlessly sinking.  Everything seemed so far away, echoing and distant.  It took an extraordinary amount of will to force himself back to his conversation with his aunt; he hoped she didn’t notice how his attention had drifted.  
            “I’m not.”  His cheeks were wet and his aunt looked worried.  He wondered when he had started crying.  
            “You’re just tired,” Maria soothed.  “It’s getting early habibi, you should get some more rest.”  
            He slid his eyes away from hers and nodded.  _She doesn’t understand.  She doesn’t want to understand_.  The realization made him feel even more isolated, lonely.  He slid back under the covers and let her tuck him in; her hands were gentle as she adjusted the blankets over his chest and smoothed his thick hair back to press a kiss against his brow.  
            “I love you, Aquila.”  
            “I love you too.”  
            “She’s gone now, get some sleep.”  
            His aunt was wrong; his mother was never completely gone.  He closed his eyes and wished for Sirocco, he slept so much more easily in her arms.  Night faded into morning, yet still his mother’s spirit lingered, calling to him, and Sirocco never came.  


            He gave up trying to sleep shortly before dawn and got up to stretch and meditate, moving fluidly from posture to posture, focusing on his breathing.  The Assassins of Alamūt had practiced yoga since the Order’s scholar, Abū Rayḥān Bīrūnī, had returned to the fortress with his translations of Yoga Sutras around 1050.  Usually he found peace in the activity, but snippets of last night’s dreams and the nearly constant worry over Sirocco’s absence and silence kept intruding into his meditations.  The sun had fully risen before he gave up; his muscles were loose and limber but his mind was still seething with anxiety and frustration as he dressed and went to join his aunt for breakfast.  He remembered to admire the new Afghani carpets Kadija had sent their aunt, pausing to study the designs and commit a few details to memory for when his sister inevitably asked what he had thought of them.  He liked the blues she’d chosen; they looked nice with his aunt’s furniture.  Tārā and Lucia were already seated at the table when he entered the room.  He hesitated uncertainly in the doorway a moment, watching the three women.  
            “Altaïr,” Maria greeted him.  “Come, sit down.  It’s not like you to sleep so late, habibi.”  
            “My apologies,” he murmured as he slid into the vacant seat his aunt indicated.  “I was meditating and stretching, and I lost track of the time.  I hope you didn’t wait on me?”  
            “Of course not.  But your timing is good; the elves just delivered a fresh pot of coffee,” he aunt replied, pouring him a cup.  
            He watched her stir in milk and sugar, her movements practiced and certain, before she handed the coffee over to him.  He accepted with an inarticulate murmur of thanks but did not immediately bring the cups to his lips.  He watched the surface of the liquid slowly still after being stirred.  
            “Tell me why you’re here to speak with Italy’s Grandmaster,” his aunt demanded in softly spoken Farsi.  He glanced up at her sharply, noting her use of a language only they spoke.  
            “Why do you think I am here to speak with him?” he countered easily, in the same language; his aunt must have a reason she didn’t want Lucia or Tārā following their conversation.  
            “Your student let it slip.”  His aunt took a dainty sip of coffee, but her eyes never left his face – hard and shrewd and calculating.  
            He forced a bland smile.  “Why shouldn’t she?  It’s not a secret.”  
            “What did the Mentor send you here to discuss?” she asked, the barest shadow of impatience hardening her tone.  
            “The Italian brotherhood has not been performing as it should.  Its Assassins are barely earning,” he replied softly.  “Other branches have contracts going unfilled and could use the extra help, but the Grandmaster has not only failed to reach out to other Motherhouses to keep his Assassins working, he has also rebuffed requests for ranking fidā'ī to fulfill contracts.  The eyes of the mountain find this behavior suspicious.  I am to remind the Grandmaster that he only holds power so long as the Mentor allows.”  
            “My son is not returning to Roma, is he?” Maria said, carefully stirring a finger in her coffee.  “He’s a hostage at Alamūt for his uncle’s obedience to the Mentor, isn’t he?”  
            “He is not a _hostage_ , Aunt Maria,” he retorted.  “His wife is more useful to the Order teaching at Alamūt than she would be if he brought her here, and the mountain is in need of Masters.  Besides,” he added, sliding a sidelong glance at Lucia.  “I don’t think he has recovered as well as we had hoped.  I fear his wounds will turn septic if he returns here now.”  
            “Your fears are not unfounded,” Maria acknowledged as she studied her coffee.  “He’s not careful.”  
            Altaïr pursed his lips to contain the disparaging sound he was tempted to make.  _‘Not careful’ barely begins to describe Ezio_.  He genuinely liked Taline; she was cautious, complex, interesting.  He doubted Ezio fully appreciated how lucky he was to have stumbled across such a prize, luckier still that she was willing to try so hard to make their marriage work.  His aunt was studying him with an unsettlingly speculative look; he hurriedly took an overlarge gulp of his coffee and didn’t allow himself any outward indication when it scalded his throat.  He smiled at his aunt again blandly.  Tārā was picking at her breakfast and kept her eyes demurely averted; he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she understood some of what they were saying.  Lucia was anxiously watching Maria, but she had better manners than to interrupt her de facto protector’s conversation.  
            “Will the Grandmaster be told his nephew is not a hostage?” Maria inquired, taking another delicate sip of coffee.  
            “He will be informed of the transfer and the Mentor’s concern regarding his management of the Italian brotherhood.  How he chooses to interpret that information is entirely up to him.”  He hesitated, watching the way his aunt was savoring her coffee, the suggestion of a smug smile ghosting across her lips.  “I trust you will not share our conversation with your brother-in-law?”  
            “Of course not.”  She tilted her head as she studied him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.  “Has my son been informed of his transfer?”  
            “I expect Kadija has already informed him, or will do so shortly.”  His aunt pushed a plate of toasted bread towards him; he took another drink of his coffee and pushed the plate back towards her.  
            “Kadija orchestrated this plan didn’t she?”  Her smile widened when he didn’t deny it.  “My god.  I can see my sister’s influence in this; _in uncertainty lies infinite possibility_.  This had to be Al Mualim’s plan all along.”  
            “What plan?” he asked, unsettled by her casual reference to his mother.  
            “People are so taken by how you look so very much like her, they forget that she also raised Kadija, that she is just as much Aaliyah’s creation as you are, habibi.”  
            He sighed.  “What’s that got to do with any plan?”  
            “She always intended that you and Kadija serve the Order in tandem, one in the light and the other supporting from the shadows,” Maria explained softly as she slid the plate of toast back in front of him.  “Kadija is better suited to be Al Mualim; Aaliyah would have seen that, had she not fallen.”  
            “Many things would have been different had she not fallen,” he replied stiffly.  
            “Take a piece of bread, Altaïr.  You cannot subsist on coffee alone, and every Assassin in Roma will want to test themselves against you,” his aunt said sternly.  “You have a reputation to uphold.”  
            “I’m here to deliver a message, not train sloppy fidā'ī,” he retorted, taking a piece of toast.  
            “Eat,” Maria commanded in Arabic as she rose from the table.  She brushed his hair back and pressed a hard kiss against his forehead.  “I have business matters that need attending.  Will I see you later tonight?”  
            He shook his head.  “Doğan expects me this evening.”  
            “Yes, of course.”  His aunt carefully smoothed her hair.  “How is Marian these days?”  
            “Garrulous, as always,” he shrugged.  “I’ve trained a few of her Masters; it will be nice to see my former students.  She’s not as pretty as you, Aunt Maria,” he added as an afterthought apology for his short visit.  
            “She never was,” Maria sniffed.  “And I was better with my blades, but that was a lifetime ago.  Safety and peace be upon you, habibi.  Come visit again soon, and give my love to your sister.  Safety and peace upon you as well,” she added, addressing Tārā.  
            “And also upon you, Madonna,” Tārā replied with just the barest hint of shyness.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”  
            “Of course.  It is always a pleasure to meet Altaïr’s students,” Maria smiled serenely before she turned to the door.  “See that he eats a proper meal, Lucia,” she commanded just before she left the room.  


            “What are you here to speak to Granmaestro Mario about…Effendi?” Lucia demanded, belatedly appending his title at his warning look.  She shoved the plate of toast at him.  
            “ _Sugar_ ,” Tārā enunciated the English word carefully as she lifted a spoonful of said ingredient and slowly poured it back into its container.  “ _Sugar_.”  She nudged him with an expectant look.  
            He sighed.  “Yes, yes.  _Soo-gur_.”  He shoved the plate of toast away and scowled at Lucia’s questioning expression.  Tārā had taken it upon herself to try to teach him some English after learning that Hadassah had been taken in by an English-speaking family.  Kadija must have told her.  The fact that he wasn’t interested in learning the language hadn’t deterred her in the slightest.   
            “You’re not trying, Effendi,” she scolded.  “Listen: _sugar_.”  
            “Now is not the time, Tārā,” he snapped before taking a deep drink of coffee.  
            Lucia pushed the plate of toast back towards him.  “ _Shh-ou-ger_.”  
            “Closer,” Tārā said, and Lucia smirked.  
            He slid an irritated look at the two of them and reached for the coffee pot to refill his cup.  
            “What are you here to speak to Granmaestro Mario about,” Lucia repeated, pulling the coffee towards herself, and out of his reach.  His temper, which had been steadily fraying since his aunt had left the room, snapped.  
            “Coffee.  Now.”   
            Lucia’s eyes widened at his tone and she wordlessly surrendered the coffee pot.  He could feel both women watching him as he poured himself more coffee and added milk, skin tight and itching under the intensity of their combined gaze.  Tārā flinched when he swiped the sugar bowl from in front of her.  He forced himself to exhale slowly and unclench his jaw.  _It’s not either of their fault that I am the one ordered to deliver Al Mualim’s message_ , he reminded himself.  He wasn’t looking forward to the inevitably ugly conversation that awaited him with the Grandmaster of Italy.  It felt like a punishment.  _Al Mualim’s will be done_.  He reminded himself that there was no excuse for inflicting his ill-temper on those around him.  
            “The word for it in Persian is _shakkar_ ,” he said, tone carefully neutral, as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee.  
            “It’s _zucchero_ , in Italian,” Lucia offered after a moment’s hesitation.  
            “In Sanskrit it’s _śarkarā_ ,” Tārā added, glancing up at him through her remarkably long eyelashes.  
            _She has eyelashes like a camel_.  He knew better then to verbalize that particular observation; he didn’t need to be told comparing a woman to a camel was unflattering, no matter how kindly meant.  He thoughtfully sipped his coffee and wondered why it somehow always tasted better when someone else prepared it for him.  _Maybe I’m just bad at preparing my own coffee_.  
            “Shouldn’t you be concerned about being late for training?” he asked, flicking a quick glace towards Lucia.  
            She stretched languidly before responding.  “I’m escorting you, Effendi.”  She smiled and fluttered her lashes at him.  He wondered if she and Tārā had agreed to make flirting with him that morning’s sport; they were both acting strangely.  
            “Besides, I haven’t gotten much actual training since Ezio’s been away,” she added with sudden, surprising, seriousness.  “I haven’t worked in months, not without a Master to assign me anything.”  
            “Are all of Ezio’s students so neglected?” he asked, trying to ignore the unwelcomed twinge of guilt he felt; keeping Ezio at Alamūt where he could oversee his recovery was more important than any temporary inconveniences to his cousin’s – soon to be former – students.  
            “Mostly just me,” Lucia shrugged.  “The Granmaestro has never liked me, and he doesn’t have to pretend without E-zo around to bully him into good behavior.  Vincenzo is like a lost puppy without his idol,” she added with another shrug.  “He’s pining for him.  Innocenzo’s taken him on, but Cenzo won’t stop asking when Ezio is coming back.”  She fixed a very pointed look at Altaïr.  “That’s something I think we’d all like to know, Effendi.”  
            “Perhaps you should ask Ezio Effendi that question directly,” Tārā cut in, her meticulously maintained brows drawing down into a frown.  
            “Why should I when he always does whatever Madonna Maria and Altaïr Effendi tell him?” Lucia shot back, eyes narrowed.  
            Altaïr’s gaze flitted between the two women, unable to shake the feeling that there was some undercurrent between them he was missing.  “Peace, Tārā,” he admonished his student softly.  “Are you all packed?  It’s at least three hours from Rome to Istanbul and I anticipate my conversation with the Grandmaster will take a while; it’s going to be a tight schedule and Doğan expects punctuality.”  
            “Of course, Effendi,” Tārā murmured, rising from the table.  “I will go get our things now.”  
            He dismissed her with a curt nod and watched Lucia gnaw on her thumbnail while she scowled at the tabletop for a moment before standing.  “Perhaps you should request a transfer.  What other languages do you speak?”  
            “Turkish, but it’s not great.”  She looked up at him and there was a brief flash of _something_ in her expression that caused his muscles to instinctively tense.  “Ezio isn’t coming back here, is he?”  
            “That’s not my place to say-”  
            He remembered where he’d seen that look before.  He’d been nineteen the first time.  His target had fled to the roof of the building – foolish really, he’d never understood why people always ran up the stairs instead of out the front door – and, of course, he’d followed.  The target was waiting for him at the roof’s edge, watching the street far below.  He was barely five feet away when the target had looked over their shoulder at him with that same strange expression before calmly stepping over the edge.  He’d looked down at their body, unnaturally splayed against the pavement several stories below, and wondered why they had chosen to die that way.  His blade would have been cleaner.  
            “- but the only certainty is change,” he replied.  
            “That this too shall pass?” she scoffed.  “Jesus Christ and Mary too, you being understanding is probably driving Ezio to drink.”  She stood and raked a hand through her thick blonde hair; he didn’t comment when she swiped the back of her hand across her eyes.  
            “So only Turkish?” he asked, rolling his weight from one hip to the other.  
            “And Italian, and Arabic,” she snapped defensively.  “A smattering of English too, but it’s _really_ not that great.  I met a handsome Australian, on a contract in Tripoli a couple years ago.”  She folded her arms across her abdomen and avoided his eyes.  “It was nice, until he found out, and then things went really bad really fast after that.  He had great shoulders.”  
            “Was this the one who broke your jaw?”  
            Her expression tightened.  “Ezio told you about that then?  Of course he did.  That man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.”  
            “But you can?” he hummed, letting doubt bleed through his voice as he studied her shuttered expression and stiff body language.  
            “Yeah.  I’m good at learning other people’s secrets while keeping my own.  How else am I supposed to scratch out a living?”  
            He raised a brow at the bitterness in her voice.  “Do you desire to be a shadowbroker then?”  
            “No.  I don’t know,” she sighed and raked a hand through her hair again.  “I want to earn a decent living – not just hand to mouth, always a slip away from destitution – and be treated with respect, like any other person.”  
            “Perfectly understandable; those are reasonable desires,” he conceded softly as he studied her.  There were weeks of tension in her shoulders, the yellowy-green traces of a fading bruise along the left hinge of her jaw – probably a backhanded strike from a right-handed man – his eyes narrowed.  “I’ll speak with Ezio when I return to Alamūt.  He’s still your mentor since you haven’t been reassigned to anyone else; perhaps there is something he can do to redress this neglect.”  
            “Thank you, messere-” She probably would have said more, but Tārā had returned with their bags and Lucia hastily swallowed the rest of what she had been close to saying.  He was grateful for the interruption; Lucia’s gratitude discomforted him.  
            “Come Tārā, it is time for us to go,” he said, taking his bag from her and slinging it across his body.  “Lead on, Lucia.”


	19. Altaïr: intro Irika

            He leaned forward against the neck of the thestral he was riding and attempted to inconspicuously adjust himself.  Thestrals did not tolerate saddles and the marked protuberance of their spines could make long journeys along the mirror-roads _uncomfortable_.  Usually the discomfort didn’t bother him, but he’d spent a fair amount of time traveling over the last several days and the more tender portions of his anatomy were approaching the limits of his tolerance.  He glanced over his shoulder at Tārā; the grim set of her mouth suggested that she was also experiencing similar discomfort.  He was grateful that they were finally returning to Alamūt.  He hoped that he wouldn’t have to mount another thestral for at least a week; preferably longer.  
            _Al Mualim should be pleased_ , he reflected; their visit to the Istanbul motherhouse, and audience with its Grandmaster, Marian Doğan, had gone well – or at least as well as could be expected.

 

            The Grandmaster of the Turkic branch of the Order was a hard-bitten woman, lean and steely-eyed with a thick streak of white down the center of the otherwise unrelieved black of her hair and an infamous scar across the bridge of her nose where her face had been slashed by a tainted blade, decades before her ascent to Grandmaster.  Her robes were a shade of deep gray, with pewter embroidery along the edges and across her shoulders, tapering down her back and around the edges of her dark hood; the blood-red of her Master’s sash somehow more vibrant against the dark backdrop of her clothing.  She was well-known for her wry sense of humor and mercurial temper, her wolfish smiles and sang-froid.  She was formidable.  They had always gotten along remarkably well.  
            “I intended no disrespect, Altaïr,” Doğan said, draped across the throne-like chair in her receiving room in a deceptively languid pose.  “And I’m sure Kadija Effendi is an excellent choice, I just want to know why Al Mualim has passed over the most obvious and well-suited candidate: you.”  
            “Kadija Effendi is the best choice for the Order,” he replied stiffly.  “Long has she served with unwavering loyalty and dedication-”  
            “So have many others.  It is the least of what is demanded of a Master in our Order,” Doğan interrupted him frostily, pausing to twitch a fold of her charcoal-washed robes into place.  “I did not question her quality; I question what the Mentor has found lacking in you.”  
            He gritted his teeth in irritation and willed the grimace to pass for a smile.  “I believe Al Mualim feels that my highest and best use to the Order is to remain in my current position.  Were I to be elevated to Mentor, I would no longer be able to train so many rising Masters; my time and attention would be demanded elsewhere.”  
            “That is true,” Doğan admitted slowly, drawing her eyes over him in an uncomfortably thorough appraisal.  “But it is a small price to pay to have a Mentor to whom so many Masters owe their personal loyalty.”  
            “Isn’t their loyalty to the Order enough?” he replied smoothly, despite the gnawing unease at what Doğan was obliquely suggesting.  
            “Jamil does not treat this one as he should,” a man said, stepping out of the shadows to stand at Doğan’s right hand.  He was dressed in only a pair of well-oiled kisbet, slung indecently low across his hips.  “He forgets that even the finest tool will shatter with ill-use.  It is not wisely done.  Nor is it wise to rashly cast aside the longstanding friendship of my sister over something so small to his interests.  We are unsettled by his actions.”  
            “We?” Altaïr queried coolly as he studied the newcomer.  
            “Have you met Fenris?  How rude of me not to have introduced you,” Doğan purred.  
            The man returned his gaze with something almost like a smile, but didn’t bother to answer his question.  He had deeply bronzed skin, blond hair so pale it might in fact have been white and strange silvery-white full body tattoos resembling vines.  It was the sharpness of his smile and the eerie luminesce of his eyes that betrayed his true nature.  
            “Fenris… Maraas, I presume?” Altaïr asked carefully, sliding his eyes back to Doğan.  She smiled.  
            He heard Tārā’s breath softly stutter behind him as she realized what Fenris actually was.  He didn’t believe for a second that Doğan had inadvertently overlooked the introduction; he wondered at the design behind it.  
            “Your Grace.”  He steepled his hands and bowed his head to the Maraas.  
            “Effendi,” Fenris replied in acknowledgment.  He sounded disinterested; Altaïr wondered why the Maraas had assumed that affect when it was clearly not the case.  
            “You must be tired from your travels,” Doğan continued smoothly.  “And from your earlier conversation with Granmaestro Mario, which I can only assume was unpleasant.”  
            “Why do you assume that?” he queried, tone meticulously neutral.  
            “Because most conversations with that man are.”  She struck the iron rimmed heel of her boot twice against the floor.  An elf promptly appeared at her summons.  “Show the Effendi and his, _student_ , to their chambers.  I believe they would appreciate an opportunity to rest before the evening meal.”  The Grandmaster’s smile was wolfishly opaque.  “I’ve also summoned Irika.  You may take her with you when you return to Alamūt.  Safety and peace be upon you.”  The dismissal was abrupt, but not entirely unexpected.  
            “And also upon you, Beylerbey.”  
            He bowed.  She waited a moment before inclining her head in acknowledgment and he and Tārā were allowed to straighten and follow the elf to their assigned room.  There was only one bed; it was not overly large.  Tārā swore beneath her breath behind him.  He did not reprove her.  
            “Why does she think that we are lovers?” she asked in obvious irritation.  
            _Al Mualim obviously suggested something to his favorite regarding the reasons behind this visit.  Perhaps that is not the only thing he hinted at._   He felt a curious stirring of irritation, annoyance at being manipulated and used without any thought of informing him as to the Mentor’s deeper purposes.  
            “Because that’s what she has been led to believe, probably by Al Mualim himself,” he replied, his own eyes narrowing in silent reproof to hold her tongue until the elf had gone.  He liked Tārā just fine, but that by no means meant that he had any desire to share a room with her – much less a bed.  
            “Bring extra blankets,” he commanded as he turned towards the elf.  “My student is still recovering her strength and is easily chilled.”  
            He waited until the elf had indicated its understanding, salaamed deeply and left, before turning to Tārā.  
            “What struck you as odd about our audience with Doğan?” he asked, carefully surveying the room with his second sight.  
            “Effendi?”  
            “I train Masters, Tārā, and Masters are expected to be able to see below the surface of situations and conversations.  I know you have it in you, so tell me – what did you notice?”  
            Tārā toyed with the cuff of her robes as she played for time to consider her answer to the question.  He knew that she had been closely following his conversation with Doğan, particularly when the Maraas had made his presence known; he’d been listening to her breathing, monitoring her heartrate through the link they’d forged between their blades for this trip.  
            “She assumed that there was some fault in you, some underlying flaw that would account for Al Mualim choosing a successor whom she clearly feels is inferior.  She also suggested that there are unrecognized weaknesses within the Order.  Some, _loose threads_ , that when pulled will damage the fabric around them.  And-” she glanced at him questioningly, gauging his reaction.  
            He tipped his chin in the barest nod.  “Go on.”  
            “That Maraas clearly blames Al Mualim for something-”  
            “Clearly,” he agreed, frowning thoughtfully as he tried to unpack the meaning of what Fenris had said, and had left unsaid.  It felt important, but understanding why eluded him; which is why he was interested in Tārā’s perspective – perhaps she would hit upon something that he missed.  
            “What do you think his grievance with the Mentor is?”  
            She raked her teeth across her bottom lip with a thoughtful frown of her own.  “Something to do with you, obviously, and it sounded like it’s tied into your relationship with your Maraas lover,” she answered slowly, carefully.  “Perhaps she and Al Mualim had a falling out, perhaps over something to do with you?”  She shrugged.  “I’m just guessing.  It’s not my place to speculate as to your personal affairs.”  
            “They are hardly personal – not any more, at least – not when someone I’ve never met before today seems to know more about my affairs than I do.”  
            He pushed his hood back and raked his nails across his scalp as he stalked over to the window.  _This doesn’t make sense_.  He hadn’t seen Sirocco since before Tārā had arrived, but he hadn’t thought anything of it as it wasn’t unusual for Sirocco to be out of contact for a few weeks at a time.  Now, after what the Maraas had said – _we are unsettled by his actions_ – he couldn’t help but wonder what actions the Mentor had taken that had _unsettled_ the Maraas, and what any of that had to do with him and Sirocco.  
            “I’m sorry Effendi.  Perhaps, _Sirocco_ -” she hesitated over the name “-will be able to explain what it, um, he, was referring to.”  
            “They make you uncomfortable, the Maraas,” he observed, studying their reflections in the windowpane.  “Why is that?”  He watched her reflection shrug, the movement tight and uncomfortable.  
            “They’re a bit… _unnatural_ ,” she said hesitantly.  
            “How are they any less natural than us?” he pressed.  “Simply because they are stronger?  Live longer?  Because they feed off of our kind?  By that logic, does that make an eagle more unnatural than a rabbit?”  
            “I suppose that depends,” she replied carefully.  “On if one is asking the eagle or the rabbit.”  
            His lips curled slightly.  “Clever answer.”  
            “That doesn’t sound like praise,” Tārā said, venturing a few steps closer to him.  
            “Do you require much in the way of praise?” he asked.  She hesitated on the cusp of her next step and rocked back on her heels.  
            “No, that’s not-”  
            “Has Al Mualim tasked you with watching me?” he asked, turning from the window to scrutinize her with his second sight.  She glowed a soft celestial blue, like all members of the Order; her respiration and heartbeat were slightly elevated, but not suspiciously so.   
            “No,” she responded cautiously.  “Why are you asking me this?  Do you think me a spy?  Do you think I’m here to betray you?”  Her surprise and confusion seemed genuine.   
            “I am asking because I want to know,” he replied.  “It is no betrayal merely to do as the Mentor commands, on the contrary, it is your duty and I would not ask you to do otherwise.  I have nothing to hide; I simply want to know.”   
            “Will I be asked to report on your actions during this trip?” she asked hesitantly.  “Even if it doesn’t bother you, it feels somehow improper to me.”  
            “I don’t think anyone has ever suggested that I am neglectful of my students, that I am miserly with my time and attention… and yet, Al Mualim has repeatedly ordered me to spend more time with you, to engage in what amounts to improper favoritism,” he replied, motioning her to join him at the window.  “I don’t understand what other reason he could have for ordering that you accompany me on this task; surely your time would be better spent training, studying, recovering, or any number of other things.  It only makes sense if you are here to watch me for him, although I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such mistrust.”  
            Tārā stepped forward to stand beside him at the window, watching the traffic below with an expression that suggested mental agitation.  
            “Perhaps it is not mistrust, Effendi,” she suggested slowly.  “You are of an age where most men have already married, and the Mentor seems to be quite fond of you; perhaps he merely wishes to see you married and settled before he falls.  It must be much on his mind if he’s chosen a successor.  Has he officially named her yet?”  
            “If not already, than shortly.”  He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to be happy for Kadija; it was proving harder than he had expected.  It would have been easier if Kadija herself had seemed the slightest bit happy about her impending elevation.  
            “You are mistaken as to Al Mualim’s motivations for possibly wanting to see me married; sentimentality has no place in the Mentor’s decision making.  I doubt it ever has.  Are you a pawn in these machinations, or a willing participant?” he asked.  Her breath caught at his bluntness.  
            “Please do not take offense, but I have no desire to marry you, Effendi,” she replied.  “You are a fine man, and any woman would be lucky to have you for her husband, but-”  
            “You have no interest or attraction to men,” he supplied.  “Your preference is for other women.”  He turned to look at her.  She was obviously shaken, almost frightened.  
            “That’s – I’m not-” she stammered, going ashen.  
            “That is the reason Viaan participated in that shameful masquerade, to shelter you from censure should rumors start to spread as to the gender of your wayward lover,” he continued patiently.  “It’s all right, Tārā; I will protect you.  It is no offense to Allah or man to love someone.”  
            “But it is.”  She took a deep, shaky breath.  “It is a great offense.  Someone must have seen us, together.  I was already gone when they came.  They killed her, with stones.”  Her voice was even and dispassionate.  He appreciated the amount of effort it must have cost her to sound so distant and removed; it was something in which he’d had ample practice.  
            “And then I got Viaan killed, for his part in hiding my shame,” she continued flatly.  “Obviously I have given great offense, to be so fatal to those around me.  My love is poison, a death sentence.”  
            “No god worthy of the name bothers to punish the living for their perceived misdeeds.  Let the dead carry the dead,” he said softly.  He recognized that she was grieving, that she was in pain, but he knew he wasn’t good with that sort of thing; he always said or did something wrong, only made things awkward and worse.  
            She nodded and he relaxed slightly, tentatively relieved that they were moving past that part of their conversation.  
            “Doğan Beylerbey instructed us to rest before the evening meal, was that mere hospitality, or is there another reason?” Tārā asked after a moment’s hesitation.  
            “Hospitality, I should think,” he replied.  “Although one can never be certain with the Solak, she’s a black fox, if ever there was.”  
            Tārā’s brow momentarily creased in confusion before smoothing out again; he figured she’d worked out whatever it was she hadn’t understood or had shrugged it off as unimportant.  _If it was important, she would have asked_.  
            “The bed is yours, if you would like to rest before we’re summoned for dinner,” he offered.  
            “You do not wish to rest, Effendi?” she asked, hovering uncertainly at his elbow.  
            “No, thank you.  I have too much on my mind to find laying down restful,” he replied.  
            “Would it help to talk about what’s troubling you?”  
            “I prefer to keep my own counsel.”  He regretted how brusque he must have sounded the moment after he spoke.  She was already backing away with a respectful murmur.  “Tārā, wait,” he sighed.  “I did not mean to slight you.”  
            “Of course not, Effendi,” she replied.  “I cannot repeat what you have not told me.”  
            He sighed again.  “It’s not that.  I have nothing to hide, but it would serve no purpose to share my current thoughts.  They just circle around and around in my head.  It’s monotonous, really, and I don’t want to bore you with them.”  
            “You never know, I might not be bored,” she replied.  
            “If my own thoughts bore _me_ , they most certainly will bore you.  Are you going to rest?”  
            She shook her head.  “I’d rather not give my own thoughts space and silence to fill.”  
            He beckoned her back to the window.  “Then come play a game with me.”  
            “What sort of game?” she asked as she joined him at the window.  
            _She looks nervous_.  He vaguely wondered why.  
            “A hunting game.  My sister and I played it often as children when we were waiting for our mother to return from a contract,” he replied scanning the foot traffic on the street below.  
            “How do you play?”  
            “You pick a target-” a middle-aged, rather nondescript man scuttling across the street caught his eye “-and you construct a history for them based on what you observe.  Let’s use him,” he said, jutting his chin at the man.  “I’ll start.”  
            Altaïr studied the man’s clothes, his body language, before willing his eyes to slip into the second sight and looking even deeper.  _He has no command of magic.  He is exhausted, hungry, anxious – why is he so anxious?_   He cocked his head slightly as he considered the man, watched the way he was craning his neck to search the faces of the people bustling around him.  The man was standing near a tram stop, but when a tram pulled up he made no move to board.  _He’s looking for someone_.  He exhaled slowly.  
            “He’s Jewish, although he pretends to be Christian,” he started and glanced over at Tārā, inviting her to agree with or challenge the statement.  
            “How did you get ‘Jewish’ just from looking at him?”  
            He smiled.  “He was almost struck while crossing the street.  He crossed himself, but afterwards – it wasn’t reflexive – and he used his left hand.”  
            “He might be left handed.”  
            “He probably is,” he allowed.  “But I sincerely doubt he’s a Christian.”  
            “Because he crossed himself left-handed,” she asked, arching an eyebrow incredulously.  
            He shrugged.  “He also hesitated partway through the gesture, like he was trying to remember what to do next.  Anyone raised in a christian faith would never do that; they’d have been making the sign of the cross their entire lives.  They do it without even thinking about it.”  
            “That still doesn’t mean he’s Jewish,” she insisted.  
            “His suit looks like Czech tailoring, although the cut is some years out of date,” he pointed out patiently.  
            “The clothes might have been given to him, or he might have stolen them,” she pointed out in return.  He arched his brows and leveled a speaking look; she sighed.  “Fine.  Czech.  From the Sudetenland, perhaps?”  
            “Perhaps,” he agreed.  “He’s been pretending to be Christian because he has been persecuted for his Jewish faith and had to cross hostile territory.  He’s supposed to meet someone here, someone he doesn’t know very well – perhaps someone he’s never even met before – that person is going to provide the forged documentation he needs to make his way through Turkey.  That tram line will take him to the ferry he needs to cross to the other side of Istanbul,” he added, supplying a piece of information she probably didn’t already know.  “He’s trying to make his way to the holy land, perhaps even Jerusalem.  He has either had a recent narrow escape or is carrying incriminating information; he’s very anxious.”  He watched Tārā’s eyes flash gold as she studied the man.  
            “I think I understand how to play now,” she said after a moment.  “Who shall my target be, Effendi?”  Her smile was predatory and eager.  
            He hummed thoughtfully and took his time, enjoying her mounting impatience.  
            “That woman there, with the red shawl.  Do you see her?”

 

            The thestral he was riding arched its neck and shook its mane.  He swallowed down a defeated sigh and slumped back into the position that was becoming increasingly intolerable for him, but apparently the most comfortable for the creature he was riding.  He couldn’t wait to get back to Alamūt; to go for a long, solitary run, soak in a hot bath, have dinner with Kadija, and cuddle his cat.  Most of all, he couldn’t wait to no longer be riding a thestral.  _Maybe Sirocco will come to me tonight_.  His blood heated with anticipation, and he hated his body for being so needy and weak.  It was also an incredibly _uncomfortable_ situation for his body to have that _particular_ physiological response.  He glanced over his other shoulder to check on Irika; she was bonelessly draped over the back of the thestral she was riding, chin resting on her hands folded over its withers.  She might have been dozing.  He was tempted to swear.

 

            _In a different life, she would be considered a beauty_ , he noted with clinical detachment as he surveyed the fidā'ī who’d come to escort Tārā and him to the evening meal.  
            _Irika Viktrova.  Fifth-tier Veteran, currently stationed in Sophia, Bulgaria, soon to be transferred to Alamūt.  Ukrainian.  Twenty-six.  Surrendered to the Order at five years of age as an orphan.  
_             “Effendi, Assassin,” Irika inclined her head to each of them in turn; her bow was noticeably deeper to Altaïr.  “Doğan Beylerbey sent me as your escort.”  
            “Doğan Beylerbey’s hospitality is very great indeed to honor us so,” he murmured in response, falling into his assiduously practiced manners effortlessly.  “But I will not already have forgotten my way.”  
            _Fluent in_ _Ukrainian and Russian, passable Turkish and Bulgarian, Arabic in need of improvement.  Proficient with firearms and incendiary devices.  Formal training in ballet and gymnastics.  Fifteen solo killing contracts completed_.  
            “Of course not, Effendi,” she replied smoothly, the corners of her mouth curling slightly with the suggestion of a smile.  The angry red had faded from the wound that had split her upper lip on the left side of her face, leaving behind a waxy rose-petal pink ridge of scar tissue across her otherwise translucent pale complexion.  Her hair fell in crisp champagne-colored curls around her shoulders, the roots a darker, weedier, blond.  
            “But you are to dine with Doğan Beylerbey and her Masters,” she continued with a quick glance at Tārā.  
            “I see.  And my student?” he asked, switching to Arabic from the Turkish they had been speaking so Tārā could follow the conversation.  
            _Skilled in infiltration, sabotage, espionage, and provocation.  Tendency to avoid physical confrontation.  Hand to hand fighting skills slightly below threshold for rank.  Strength and stamina meets expectations for age, gender and rank_.  
            “Your student dines with the rest of us,” Irika replied in careful Arabic.  Her perfect composure momentarily flickered at Tārā’s non-reaction.  “I thought we could sit together, become better acquainted, since she is as alone here as I shall be at Alamūt, Effendi.”  
            He hummed noncommittally.  “Tārā?”  
            “That is acceptable to me, Effendi,” Tārā murmured, tone evenly pitched, low and dutiful.  Irika arched her brows but refrained from commenting.  Irika outranked Tārā; her acquiescence to Irika’s offer had been taken for granted.   
            “Then it is acceptable to me as well.”  
            A questioning look briefly ghosted across Irika’s face before she resumed her serene smile.  Tārā had stiffened slightly, perhaps understanding that he’d decided to give subtle encouragement to the suggestion that they were indeed becoming closer than what would be entirely proper for a mentor and their student.  _If Al Mualim is indeed trying to pair me off with Tārā, this show of favoritism will pass unadmonished.  I probably should have mentioned this to her first, but if she is questioned, she can answer truthfully that she does not know my motives.  
_             “Shall we go then to dine, Effendi?” Irika asked, motioning to the door with a sweep of her hand.  
            “Lead on,” he replied, folding his hands together at the small of his back and tipping his chin slightly to further obscure his expression in the shadows of his hood.  Tārā fell in step just behind him, on his left, as was proper and expected.  Irika walked beside him, at his right, leading the way.  The silence between them was teeming with unspoken thoughts as they made their way down vaulted hallways encrusted with authentic Byzantium tilework.  The path Irika had chosen was seemingly deserted; he recognized it was by design even before she spoke.  
            “I wanted to thank you, Effendi, for taking me on,” she murmured in Turkish, steps slowing.  “I am grateful for the opportunity.”  
            “And what, exactly, are you grateful for, Assassin?” he asked, coming to a stop as he turned to face her.  
            “To train beneath you.  To be afforded greater opportunity to serve the Order,” she murmured, eyes respectfully lowered.  “When my mentor rose to Grandmaster of Kiev he exiled me to Sophia, to remain a Veteran and take whatever contracts I could get.  He would not have put me forward for additional training, nor agreed to my transfer to Alamūt had the request come from anyone other than Al Mualim.  I know that it is you I have to thank for this reversal of my fortunes; there is no other reason for the Mentor to know who I am.  Thank you, Effendi.”  
            “I was favorably impressed by your skills when we last met,” he replied, shrugging off her gratitude.  “When I heard of your mentor’s elevation, I was surprised that the news was not accompanied by your promotion as well.  Even more surprised that you had been reassigned to a bureau and would receive no further training.  I pulled your file.”  He watched a flash of tension run through her body like an electric shock.  He allowed the silence to stretch, to see if she would venture to break it, but Irika held her silence and avoided his eyes.  
            _Disciplined for excessive promiscuity_.  His eyes had narrowed when he read that.  It was an extremely prejudicial entry in an otherwise impressive file; he wondered what it meant.  _Either she was sleeping with her mentor and got caught with someone else, or she wouldn’t sleep with him at all_ , Kadija had said with a shrug when he showed her.  _So it was done in pettiness, out of spite_ , he had asked.  _Undoubtedly_ , she had replied.  _It would never have been recorded in her file if she was a man_.  He knew Kadija was right, of course.  
            “Your file is very impressive, except for one thing.  You know the entry of which I speak,” he continued when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to break the sprawling silence.  
            “Yes, Effendi.”  
            “Is there any truth to it?  Look at me when I am speaking to you.”  
            She blinked at his bluntness, drew a shaking breath, and raised her eyes to his.  “It is true that I was disciplined, Effendi.”  
            He held his silence and waited for her to continue, to afford her further opportunity to explain the circumstances.  Tārā hovered at his elbow, close enough for him to smell the fading jasmine scent of the soap she used to wash her hair, her manners momentarily overshadowed by curiosity.  
            “Is that all you have to say?”  
            “Yes, Effendi.”  
            He understood her predicament.  She could not deny the allegation recorded against her without calling her former mentor – now a Grandmaster – a liar.  His blood simmered with irritation; it bothered him when Masters abused their power.  Irika’s eyes flickered briefly to Tārā before returning to him and he could read the question in her gaze.  
            “Is there something you wanted to ask me?”  
            “No, Effendi.”  
            “Good.”  He lifted his chin and studied her thoughtfully.  “You have potential, Irika.  That is why I requested your transfer.  Alamūt – the Order – has need of someone with your skills.  It is not an easy road.  Strength requires sacrifice.  Are you prepared to answer her call, to put aside your personhood and rise to Master?”  
            Irika’s breath had gone shallow, pupils fluttering with rapid beat of her heart.  “Yes, Effendi.  I will answer; I will serve the Order in whatever manner she has need of me.”  
            She held his gaze unflinchingly; her eyes were a striking glacier blue, hard crystalline and clear.  Her response was further confirmation that he had chosen well.  
            “Nothing is true,” he murmured in Arabic.  
            “Everything is permitted,” Irika and Tārā responded in unison, voices merciless as the cold steel strapped to their forearms.  He watched the two women study each other in the following heartbeats of silence.  
            “You should not keep Doğan Beylerbey waiting; she is not the most patient of women,” Irika finally said.  
            “No, she is not,” he agreed.  “Lead on.”

 

            He’d swung his leg over the thestral’s back as soon as it touched the ground and jumped down before it had come to a complete stop.  _Such a display of weakness is not befitting a Master_ , he mentally chided himself, although at the moment he found it very hard to care; he was far too relieved to no longer be astride a thestral.  His mount switched its tail and turned its head to fix one of its cloudy-white eyes on him.  He could almost feel it contemplating whether or not to bite him before it settled for prodding his shoulder with its muzzle.  From behind him came the sounds of Irika’s boots hitting the ground and Tārā’s sharp intake of breath as she slid from her mount.  
            “Thank you for your service, Kobilić,” he murmured as he stroked the thestral’s gaunt face; it exhaled forcefully through its nose and shook its mane, pawing impatiently at the ground.  He always made it a point to learn the names of the thestrals he rode, out of respect for the service they provided him and his fellow Assassins.  Kobilić was his preferred mount; the stallion had been his mother’s favorite and he’d ridden on its bony back his entire life.  
            “Has something happened?” Irika asked with a frown.  “Where are the grooms?  These creatures are hungry.”  
            “That is a good question.”  He surveyed the emptiness around them, the muscles in his jaw tightening with irritation when he saw that they were alone.  
            “I am sure there will be a reasonable explanation,” he bit out as he strode towards the tall arching doorways so often mistaken for mirrors by the uninitiated.  
            The thestral followed close behind him, its breath reptilian-cold against the back of his neck.  He’d almost reached the doorway before a pair of grooms made their appearance, dragging their feet as they chortled over some joke between them.  Their previous moment’s merriment died a quick death when they recognized him.  
            “Effendi!” one of the gasped while the other immediately looked guilty and shifty.  “You were not expected to arrive so early in the day.”  
            “Clearly not.”  He took a moment to level a pointed look at the groom who had spoken; until he squirmed with discomfort under the hardness of his eyes.  “My mount is in need of feed and rest; as are the mounts of my students.”  His eyes narrowed further as he drew the warmth in the surrounding air towards himself, feeding his magic.  The grooms noticed; he could tell by the way they squirmed.  “Why was this post abandoned?  There are two of you.”  
            The grooms were mumbling hasty excuses, but he was hardly paying attention.  Tārā’s footsteps were uneven, he could sense her fatigue, and Irika was also tiring from uncertainty and hard travel.  _They both need time to rest and settle in_.  
            “Enough,” he commanded, silencing the grooms with an impatient gesture.  “Look to your charges and be grateful that I don’t have time to see you both reprimanded.  Al Mualim is waiting,” he added as an afterthought to his students over his shoulder.  One of them sighed; he suspected it was Tārā – Irika was still very anxious to make a good impression.  Privately, he was in complete sympathy with the sentiment.  
            There was the brief sensation of passing through cold water as he stepped through the doorway and into Alamūt’s mirror room.  The air tasted dry and cold, acerbic, undercut with hints of sweet water and spicy evergreen from the Garden.  _Home_.  He inhaled greedily as he waited for the elf he had summoned.  It was not a long wait.  
            “Take our bags to my chambers,” he commanded as he unslung his own bag and handed it over to the elf’s grasping spindly hands.  “My students can take their bags from there to their rooms after we’ve reported to Al Mualim.”  He swept a quick glance over the women accompanying him and turned back to the elf.  “Also, have tea ready for our return, and a light meal; something hot, no meat.”  
            _It will be done_ , the elf signed and then salaamed deeply before vanishing with a sharp crackling he felt fizzle across his skin.  
            “No meat?” Irika asked, unslinging her bag and setting it down on the floor for the elves to retrieve.  
            “For me,” Tārā replied, setting her bag next to Irika’s.  “I don’t eat flesh foods.”  
            “You should have said.”  Irika looked perturbed.  “I could have told the elves and you would have gotten more than bread and cheese for dinner.”  
            Tārā shrugged.  “It was enough.”  
            Irika’s expression indicated that she was not finished with the subject, but his head was beginning to ache and he was becoming impatient for his duty to be fulfilled so he run and bathe and see his sister, cuddle his cat.  He thought of Sirocco and his skin prickled with anticipation and longing.  _Siro_ …  
            “Come,” he barked over his shoulder, already striding from the room.  “Al Maulim is waiting.”

 

            The Mentor received them in his study.  The room was heated to an almost unbearable temperature by several braziers of glowing blue coals; he would have liked to remove his heavy fur-lined outer robes but could not do so without Al Mualim’s permission, and it would be unspeakably rude to ask, at least on his own behalf.  He hoped the audience was not long.  
            “Tell me of your successes on our behalf,” the old man commanded, his milky-white eyes flashing gold as he studied the three fidā'ī standing before him.  
            _He has thestral eyes_.  He wondered why he hadn’t noticed the similarity sooner.  
            “Your will has been conveyed to Italy’s Grandmaster; he hears and obeys,” Altaïr began, tone tempered emotionless and even.  
            Mario Auditore had not taken Al Mualim’s latest edicts well, especially those concerning Ezio.  He had become so accustomed to thinking of Mario as a villain – his aunt rarely mentioned her despised brother-in-law in any other terms – he’d almost forgotten how attached the older man was to his nephew and that he loved Ezio very deeply – no father could have loved a son more than Mario loved Ezio.  It had not been a pleasant conversation.  
            There was no warmth in Al Mualim’s smile.  “He took our orders well, then?”  
            “He was very… _distressed_ at Ezio Effendi’s reassignment,” he replied, choosing his words with more than his usual care.  “But his grief does not diminish his loyalty to the Order, or to you, Efendim.”  
            “I am the Order,” Al Mualim intoned.  “We are one and the same.”  
            “And so it shall always be, insha’allah,” he murmured, lowering his eyes dutifully.  
            He watched Al Mualim study his own hands folded together over the head of his cane with a thoughtful frown as the prickling silence stretched.  Behind him, he heard the faint shuffle of Irika shifting her weight.  His kameez was starting to stick to his lower back.  
            “Tell me of Istanbul,” Al Mualim commanded.  “It has been too long since I last saw Marian.”  
            “Doğan Beylerbey sends her love and obedience to you, Efendim,” he replied, again carefully selecting his words.  “She does not understand the choice of your successor, but she does not require understanding to support whatever decisions the Mentor makes.”   
            “Wry-mouthed as always, I see.”  
            The words were spoken coolly, but he could hear a trace of humor to Al Mualim’s tone and was reminded that Doğan had been one of the Mentor’s favorite students, when he was still only a Master, so many years ago.  
            “And she returns you to me with another student,” Al Mualim continued, shifting his attention to studying Irika.  “This is the one you requested?”  
            “Yes, Efendim.”  He motioned Irika to step forward; Al Mualim cocked his head like an eagle at the soft sound of her footsteps, the gold in his gaze becoming more pronounced.  He was accustomed to the Mentor’s mannerisms, the various small ways he compensated for his lost sight; Irika was not, and it clearly unsettled her.  
            “I am honored to present my newest student, Veteran Irika Viktrova.  Long may her skills strengthen our own,” he said, hating how stiff he always sounded as he pronounced the formal introduction.  Kadija somehow made it sound so natural.  He motioned Irika another step closer to the Mentor.  
            Al Mualim studied Irika with a thoughtful hum.  “Previously under Krystafier Effendi, in Kiev – I believe?”  
            “Yes, Efendim,” Irika murmured.  “I am very grateful to you for the opportunity to train under Altaïr Effendi, to be of greater service to our Order.  It is an honor.”  
            “Of course, and you are right to feel honored,” Al Mualim replied, somewhat sharply.  Altaïr felt his brows rise slightly at the Mentor’s tone.  
            “You may begin her training tomorrow,” Al Mualim continued.  “After she has been cleared by the Medics, full physical and gynecological examinations.  We would speak with you further, in private, tomorrow evening.  For now, see to your students.  Safety and peace be upon you.”  
            “Safety and peace,” he murmured in response as he bowed, echoed by Tārā and Irika.  Al Mualim dismissed them with a curt nod and it took no small amount of discipline to leave the room at a measured pace.  
            “You are released, Tārā.  Wait for us in my chambers,” he said when they reached the empty hallway beyond Al Mualim’s apartments.  “Have some tea and sustenance while you wait.  Use the rest of the day for rest and preparation to resume training tomorrow.”  The crisp winter air felt refreshingly cool against his skin after the Mentor’s overheated rooms; sweat itched along his hairline and rolled down his spine.  “Safety and peace,” he pointedly added in dismissal when Tārā lingered, curiosity playing clearly across her face.  
            “Safety and peace, Effendi,” she replied.  He watched Tārā take her leave at a leisurely pace, conscious of the mounting tension vibrating through Irika as she stood beside him.  
            “Come,” he commanded softly.  “We will speak in the Garden; it offers great beauty… and privacy,” he added, with a meaningful look at his newest student.  
            “As you desire, Effendi,” Irika murmured.  Their walk to the Garden was silent.  
            His heart lifted, as it had always done, when he entered the Garden.  Even in winter its scent was unmistakable: sweet fresh water and the winter-prominent peppery scent of evergreens, damp wood and the faint, acrid scent of the ashes spread over the barren soil and around the bases of the surviving plants as insulation against hard freezes.  His mother had loved the Garden.  
            “I have never understood why the Garden is less visited in the winter,” he commented, selecting one of his favorite paths; it lead to a large water feature he and Kadija had often played with as children, laughing and splashing and racing little leaf boats.  “It holds its beauty through all seasons.”  
            “Why did Al Maulim specifically order me to submit to a full gynecological examination?” Irika blurted out and then sank her teeth into her lower lip, forehead creasing with consternation.  “That isn’t usually part of the standard physical here, is it?”  
            He exhaled slowly.  He had been expecting her to ask those questions; he had not prepared an adequate answer, apart from the unkind truth.  
            “No, it is not standard,” he acknowledged slowly, studying the smooth stones of the path before them.  “The requirement should not have surprised you; surely you expected that the Mentor would review your file before approving your transfer.”  
            The color was high across Irika’s cheeks.  _How much is from the cold?_ he absently wondered.  It would be inappropriate to ask.  
            “No such thing as a fresh start then, is there?” she asked bitterly.  
            “You already knew that,” he replied.  “Or should have expected it.  This came as no surprise.”  
            “No,” she acknowledged softly.  “It did not; not really.  I allowed myself to hope…”  
            “The most treacherous of emotions,” he interjected.  The bitterness in his voice surprised even himself.  
            “What is Tārā to you, Effendi?”  
            He slid a hard look at her, weighing his answer.  He intended that Irika would rise to be his equal before the year turned; his relationship to Tārā was unimportant enough to answer her honestly.  
            “She is my student, the former student of a fallen friend, although I suspect Al Mualim wishes her to be more.”  
            “You have so little say over your life, even in who you take to bed?” Irika demanded, whisper-soft.  
            There was _something_ in her voice, an echo of the _something_ he’d heard in other people’s voices when they spoke to him as a child, a relative of the _something_ else he’d heard in their voices as he grew older, after his mother had died.  He wished he knew what it meant, understood why it followed him through every stage of his life.  
            “Is this what it is to be a Master of this place?”  
            “Yes,” he replied softly as he studied a patch of barren, ash dusted soil.  “But not for everyone.  So far this attention seems to be restricted to me.  Tārā has an altruistic theory for Al Mualim’s actions, but I am less than convinced.”  
            Irika sighed.  “I don’t know if that was meant to be comforting or not.”  
            “It was a statement of facts as I believe them, nothing more, nothing less.”  He could hear the gurgle of the water feature as they approached and stopped; he suddenly didn’t want a scene of so many happy memories shadowed by this conversation.  “Do you have anything more to say?”  
            “No Effendi,” Irika replied flatly.  “I have nothing further to say on this topic.”  
            “Neither have I,” he stated, rather unnecessarily.  “We’ll return to my chambers for tea; you look like you could do with the warmth.”  
            “Yes, Effendi, thank you.”  
            He led the way back to the dormitories, setting a brisk pace.  The sooner he got his new student settled the sooner he’d be free to go for a long run.  If he was lucky, Kadija would join them for tea and be willing to see to the details with the medics for him.  He was also embarrassingly eager to see his cat; he purposely did not dwell on what that might suggest.  _It means nothing.  August is not another weakness for Al Mualim to exploit_.  
            His heart sang when his cat greeted him at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the DA2 Reference!  
> Actually, in case you hadn't guessed already, Doğan is a Turkic surname that means "falcon" or "Hawk". The title she uses (obviously I played LadyHawke, and I bet y'all can guess who she romanced) Beylerbey basically means "bey of beys" (lord of lords) and would be the Grandmaster's title in the former Ottoman empire.   
> Why do I use so many old Ottoman titles within the Order? Because, although it was infamously the original "Sick Man of Europe" (as christened by Czar Nicholas II), for many centuries the Ottoman empire was enormous and incredibly powerful, which meant it had a lot of cultural influence on the areas surrounding it. By the time this story is taking place, that empire had withered to little more than present day Turkey and (Imperial then Soviet) Russia is the rising power in the East, but the Order has a long memory, and holds echoes of other long gone empires in it's bureaucratic organs. Also, the Ottomans has a title for just about everything, I mean seriously Everything, and thanks to Britain's 200+ year Orientalism fetish, there's a lot of (old and rather dubious) pseudo-scholarly papers written in my native-ish language for research purposes freely available on the internet. So, secret's out - I'm actually pretty lazy when it comes to translating for research. Lol.


	20. Taline: a candle is lit

            Taline caught herself squinting and raised a hand to shield her face as she swept her eyes across the training grounds looking for Ezio, eager to share the news Yusriyah had only just confirmed to her earlier that afternoon.  
            They had both been disappointed when her monthly bleeding started a few weeks ago, but it had been light – mostly spotting – with heavy cramping, and had only lasted a few days, unlike her usual periods.  It was suspiciously familiar.  She hadn’t said anything to Ezio, not even when her breasts became tender and the unshakable, bone-deep fatigue set in; she wanted to be certain first.  She was afraid of disappointing him again.  
            The nearly constant nausea was harder to hide.  It helped that Ezio wasn’t particularly observant in the mornings, and they usually didn’t see each other again until the evening.  _Probably just a touch of influenza_ , she’d told him a few days ago when he’d asked her if something was wrong.  She’d just returned from throwing up her dinner.  He expressed the appropriate concern and suggested she go to bed early.  She felt even guiltier for lying to him the next morning when she found an empty bottle of ararat beside him as he slept on the couch.  
            “Do you know what sort of training he had planned for this afternoon, Khanum?” Ramses asked as he stood beside her, also squinting and ostensibly looking for Ezio.  He was slouching, again.  
            “I hadn’t thought to ask,” she admitted, stifling the urge to prod him until he stood up straight.  “I had no idea the training area was so large.”  
            Ramses hummed vaguely in response as he ogled a pretty girl a few years older than himself who was chatting with her friends while she awaited her turn in the ring.  Taline bit back an annoyed sigh and ventured further into the training grounds, gingerly picking her way through the icy sludge covering the path.  Ramses trailed after her, casting covetous glances over his shoulder at the pretty girl he had been watching.  _I should have asked Yusef to come with me.  He would at least try to be helpful and I wouldn’t have had to bribe him into agreeing_.  She’d been distracted all afternoon, trying to decide how to tell Ezio.  It was only during her last class of the day – Turkish – that she’d decided she couldn’t wait until that evening and would surprise him during training.  At the end of class she’d asked for a volunteer to show her to the training grounds and help her find her husband – _the Master_.  Ramses was one of her students in that class.  His indifferent study habits meant he needed as much of her goodwill as possible when it came time for evaluations, not that it would affect his standing in the class ranking much, but she hadn’t felt the need to mention that.  He probably figured Ezio’s goodwill wouldn’t hurt his prospects either.  Her breath hissed between her teeth as her foot slipped on a patch of ice.  
            “Careful, Khanum, the path is slippery,” Ramses said, catching hold of her upper arm.  
            “I noticed,” she snapped before she could stop herself.  _Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all_.  The training whites the fidā'ī wore blended in with the snow, as did the Order’s white and gray robes, with their hoods up it was hard to even see most of them, mostly she was aware of a sense of movement and the crunch of snow as they grappled, the occasional flare from a hex being flung.  She saw a flash of crimson out of the corner of her eye and turned towards the Master approaching them.  
            “Khanum?  What are you doing here?” he asked.  He had a thin face with sharp features, dark eyes and skin the color of warm mahogany.  She tried to remember the names of Alamūt’s other Masters, what Ezio had told her of them.  _This must be Ibrahim.  He doesn’t look old enough to be Selim_.  
            “I’m looking for my husband, Effendi,” she replied trying to twist her arm out of Ramses’ grasp.  
            “Remove your hand from the lady if you wish to keep it,” Ibrahim said sharply to Ramses.  The teen released her as quickly as a hot iron.  
            “She slipped, Effendi.  I caught her before she fell,” Ramses protested.  
            _I would not have fallen_ , she thought angrily.  Years of dancing had given her excellent balance and reflexes.  
            “If you had remembered your manners and offered the khanum your arm like a gentleman, instead of gawking at your betters like an ignorant peasant, she wouldn’t have slipped in the first place,” Ibrahim replied severely.  “You have no business behaving with such familiarity towards another man’s wife, much less the wife of a Master.  What is your name?”  
            “Ramses al-Hussin, Effendi,” the teen replied, seemingly chastened.  He fidgeted under the Master’s hard gaze, nervously smoothing the scant mustache he’d managed to grow.  
            Taline carefully straightened her skirt and judiciously stayed silent.  Even if she hadn’t had to depend on her ability to divine an individual’s intentions and emotional barometer for the last six years, Ibrahim’s displeasure was obvious; he made no effort to disguise it.  
            “Huh.”  Ibrahim’s eyes hardened when they returned to Ramses after sparing a swift glance at her.  “Stand up straight and shave that off until you can grow a proper one.  My honored grandmother, who was crippled with rheumatism – god rest her soul – had better posture than you, and a finer mustache; you look like a hunchback with mange,” he bit out, offering Taline a stiff arm.  “Return to your studies.  I will escort the khanum to her husband.”  
            Ramses’ eyes widened at the reprimand and she immediately took Ibrahim’s proffered arm with a pointed look at her student and a slight shake of her head.  _Don’t talk back_ , she thought forcefully, in the outside hope he’d pick up on it.  _Just respectfully concede and make your escape_.  
            Ramses hesitated a moment, with an uncertain look at her, before he inclined his head.  “As you desire, Effendi.  I apologize for any offence my actions have given,” he murmured, already edging away.  
            “Safety and peace,” she replied swiftly, before Ibrahim could chastise the youth further.  Ramses did not squander his opportunity for escape.  
            Ibrahim chuckled wryly at the teen’s hastily retreating form.  “You were far kinder than he deserved, Khanum.”  
            “I must try to win them with kindness; I’m too small for anything else,” she replied demurely as he led her deeper into the training grounds.  
            “Very impressive,” he replied.  “I’d almost believe it if I didn’t already know what you are.”  
            Her mouth went dry and her heartbeat pounded in her ears like exploding artillery shells.  “And what am I, Effendi?”  
            He smiled but didn’t answer as he led her towards what at first glance appeared to be a pit in the center of the training grounds but closer inspection revealed to be a pair of massive circular staircases twisting down to additional subterranean training levels.  The scale of Alamūt was staggering.  
            “Where are you taking me?” she demanded, dragging her feet and nervously glancing at the assassins training around them.  Even if she fully tapped the raw energy coursing through the fortress there were too many, and even if he had been his own, Ibrahim felt too strong for her; far too strong and very well trained.  _Is this what my cousins felt when Ezio came for them?_   Bile swelled up the back of her throat and she hoped she didn’t get sick.  _Don’t let the others know what you can do, it’s not safe_.  
            “To your husband, of course.”  He clamped his hand on top of hers when she tried to release his arm.  “Don’t let go yet, Khanum, the steps can be very icy and no one wants you to take a nasty fall.”  
            “Of course, thank you.”  Her breath was far too shallow as he led her down the stairs and she knew he could sense her fear.  “You haven’t answered my question, Effendi.”  
            “I told you, I’m taking you to your husband.”  
            “I meant the other one.  What you think I am.”  
            Ibrahim glanced over at her.  His eyes were hard and empty.  “Foremost you are the wife of a Master, and after that, a dā‘iyyayn – a part of the Order, even if you do not follow or understand our ways.  Is Ezio expecting you?”  
            She hesitated, considering how to answer, before deciding on the truth.  “No.  I wanted to surprise him.  My students aren’t the only ones who know I came here today.  I also told Taghrid and Hekim Yusriyah,” she added impulsively.  She hadn’t, but Ibrahim wouldn’t know that.  
            “Yusriyah,” he hummed thoughtfully.  “The medic?  I see.  You don’t look very far along, are you sure this is the type of news you want to deliver in front of an audience?”  
            She quickly dropped her gaze, silently cursing her own stupidity.  Now that Ibrahim had guessed she had no choice but to immediately tell Ezio if she didn’t want to risk him hearing it from someone else.  
            Ibrahim chuckled.  “Well, at least it will lay those ugly rumors to rest.”  
            “Insha’allah,” she managed to murmurer stiffly as she swallowed another wave of nausea.  
            It was hot and humid underground, the air heavy with the smell of wet sandstone, sweat and cedar oil, hints of cinnamon and bleach.  The sounds of training were everywhere, eerily echoing and distorted – the murmur of voices, the slap of skin on skin contact, the muffled thump of a body hitting the floor.  Her heels clicked against the carved stone floor; Ibrahim’s footsteps were silent beside her.  Her breath caught when they turned a corner and her husband came into view.  
            Ezio’s hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and he had stripped off his clothing from the waist up.  He was negligently leaning forward, hands braced against the training ring as he watched two fidā'ī spar.  Although she was somewhat used to feeling small beside him, she wasn’t used to seeing him beside other fidā'ī, and she was struck by how large he really was.  His shoulders were massive, broad and heavily muscled.  He shifted his weight and her stomach fluttered at the slide of light and shadow over his body, at the way the training whites he wore clung to his sweat-slick skin, leaving little to the imagination.  She could tell Ezio hadn’t yet noticed their presence by how unaffected his posture was.  He liked his physicality to be admired and was always more or less preening when he knew she might be looking; she’d never really gotten an opportunity to see him lose himself in something he enjoyed.  The effect was breathtaking.  
            He was speaking a strange language to his students, guttural and jarring to her ears.  It had none of the beauty of Arabic, or the soft musicality of the Italian he murmured against her skin when they were alone.  She stopped short just before they reached Ezio, suddenly nervous at disturbing him while he was working.  Ibrahim paused to cast a questioning look at her before continuing on to greet his fellow Master with a hearty slap on the back.  
            “Effendi,” Ezio returned the greeting with an easy smile.  “What brings you down to this pit, culone?”  
            “Hey now, rafiki yangu, is that any way to address a fellow Master?” Ibrahim jokingly scolded.  “Especially one who has just done you a good turn?  I rescued your little woman.”  He directed Ezio’s gaze in her direction with a jerk of his chin.  Her husband’s eyes lit up when he saw her.  
            “Taline?  What are you doing here?” he asked motioning for her to come to him with a negligent waive of his hand.  She blushed and lowered her eyes as she stood her ground.  
            “I wanted to surprise you,” she murmured, unfastening her coat.  
            The room was swelteringly hot after the snow and ice outside and it felt good to at least partially peel back one layer.  The fabric of her shirt was starting to stick to her back, beneath the weight of her coat, and her thick woolen tights itched against her thighs.  Ezio’s students were also now watching her with hard, predatory eyes; their expressions made her uneasy, almost frightened.  Unsurprisingly, their interest brought out Ezio’s protective instincts and he strode over to slide a possessive arm around her waist.  
            “It is a pleasant surprise for my beautiful bride appear in the middle of this underworld like Persephone.  Are you going to barter for me with Hades?” he asked with a teasing smile as he pulled her towards himself.  
            Ibrahim half turned towards them and arched a skeptical brow.  “Who do you cast as Hades?  Altaïr?” he asked over his shoulder as he slouched against the training ring.  
            “Kadija, of course,” Ezio replied, hand settling heavily on her hip.  “Altaïr is _obviously_ Cerberus.”  Ibrahim coughed with hastily suppressed laughter.  
            She moved closer to settle against him and started tracing her signature across his chest, which never failed to get his full attention.  She bit her lip shyly and chanced an upwards glance at his expression.  He was watching her with hooded eyes, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth.  
            “The hekim said…” she nipped her bottom lip and squirmed sideways, away from the unfamiliar fidā'ī starting to crowd around them.  
            “The hekim said,” he repeated, gaze sharpening and driving his curious students back.  “What did the hekim say, mogliettina?”  
            She resumed carefully tracing her signature across his chest while she tried to master her jangling nerves.  Her face felt hot and the sweat-dampened lace of her brassier chafed her aching breasts with every breath.  
            “Taline?”  
            She took a deep breath.  “The hekim says I’m going to have your baby, varpet.”  
            His breath caught.  “Say that again.”  
            She felt dizzy and lightheaded – from either heat or happiness, she couldn’t tell – and leaned more of her weight into the comforting shelter of his body.  “I’m pregnant.  We’re going to have a baby, Ezio.”  
            “Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto,” he murmured and quickly crossed himself before pressing a shaky kiss against her forehead.  His lips were still trembling as he kissed her, roughly pulling her against himself and forcing her jaw back, chin up, kissing her hard and fierce and she willed herself to be completely unresisting, compliant, in his arms, the way she knew he liked best.  _He’s going to want to have sex_.  Anxiety twisted her gut before settling with the all too familiar heaviness of dread.  _I hope he remembers to try to be gentle_.  Her knees suddenly buckled and she was glad for his arm around her waist and quick reflexes as the world tilted and her vision swam.  
            “My god, Taline-”  
            “Easy, rafiki yangu,” she heard Ibrahim say soothingly.  “It’s only the shock of going from the cold to this heat.  My wife was just the same when she was carrying each of our children.”  
            She found herself sitting on Ezio’s thigh as he squatted, her cheek nestled against the crook of his neck.  He smelled like sweat and leather and the sandy clay spread within the training rings – _to absorb any blood,_ _mogliettina_ – hints of hyssop and stale brandy, underlain with the musky scent she associated with his arousal.  
            “Ezio-”  
            “I’ve got you, mogliettina,” he soothed, pressing a kiss against her temple.  
            “She should be in bed,” Ibrahim declared tartly.  “Resting.  Not wearing herself down with work and running around in the snow looking for you.  You need to take better care of your wife.”  
            She watched Ezio’s mouth tightened with annoyance at the criticism.  
            “It was just a little dizzy spell.  I’m fine, really.  And I like working,” she protested, a rising feeling of panic fluttering against the bars of her ribcage at the thought of being trapped within the walls of Alamūt with nothing to do but wait for Ezio to come home each evening.  _A prison.  My life would be a prison_.  
            One of the fidā'ī Ezio had been training approached and handed him a ladle full of cold water from the cistern in the far corner of the room for her.  Ezio lifted it to her lips and the tin rim clanked against her teeth as she thirstily drank.  
            “Slowly, mogliettina,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against her side as he held her.  “We don’t want you getting sick.”  
            The fidā'ī lingered, watching her with undisguised interest in his ambiguous blue eyes while he waited to take the ladle back to the cistern.  She chanced a glance up at him over the rim of the ladle as she drank; Ezio gave no indication that he’d noticed.  
            “Sie ist deine Frau?” the fidā'ī ventured to ask when Ezio handed the empty ladle back to him.  
            “Ja, Alain,” Ezio replied with a hard, challenging look.  “Sie ist meine Frau.”  
            Alain ducked his head at the undercurrent of hostility in Ezio’s voice and nervously raked his hand through a shock of hair the color of browned butter that had fallen across his forehead.  He clutched the empty ladle and quickly turned away.  
            “Sie ist hübsch,” another fidā'ī commented, leveling an appraising look that made her skin crawl.  “Sehr exotisch.”  Ezio’s back stiffened.  
            “Halt die Klappe, Heinz,” a young woman with thick braids of wheat-colored hair hissed.  
            She didn’t need to understand the language they were speaking to know they were talking about her.  It made her nervous, and a little angry.  She’d never liked being talked over – it made her feel an object or ornamental pet.  
            “What are they saying about me, varpet?” she asked as she stood and smoothed her skirt, returning Heinz’ rude stare with a glare of her own.  
            “That you are pretty,” the young woman who had spoken earlier replied in Arabic.  Her accent was thick and she rent the beautiful cadence of the language with the truncated tones of her own.  It was a relief that she probably wouldn’t hear her beautiful Armenian butchered by their tongues.  
            “She was not asking you, Ingeborg,” Ezio said as he rose to his feet beside her, tone cold and commanding.  She watched the fidā'ī lower their eyes with indistinct, respectful murmurers.  She could feel it, the magic rippling off her husband, as he exerted control over the students before him.  
            _This is what it is to be a Master in their Order_ , she thought in the uncomfortably sprawling silence.  She had so rarely seen the Assassins actually use their magic beyond small day to day tasks – lighting lamps, closing curtains or drawing things just out of reach closer – she had almost forgotten that they could, and did, wield powerful magic – especially the fidā'ī.  She remembered how Mari had described the Assassins’ understanding of deep magic her first night within the fortress, the day she and Ezio had been married.  _All we perceive is merely an illusion.  That illusion can be altered, manipulated to serve our purposes; the only limits are the ones we impose ourselves_.  Her stomach lurched dangerously at the thought.  There was enough raw energy coursing through the fortress to unleash terrible things if someone had the strength to wield that much magic.  She pressed the back of her fingers against her lips while she waited for the nausea to pass.  Ezio noticed the gesture and slid an arm around her waist.  
            “Meine Frau ist krank,” he said to his students.  
            “Ezio,” Ibrahim said, voice low and hard with warning.  “She’s going to get sick if she stays down here.”  
            She took a slow breath.  “I’ll be fine, really.  But I might go and wait for you in your chambers?”  
            “ _Our_ chambers,” he promptly corrected her, still watching his students with hard eyes.  “Holen Sie sich meine Kleider.”  
            “You don’t need to stop early on my account, varpet,” she protested as the same young man who had brought her water stalked away.  
            “Yes, he does,” Ibrahim corrected her.  “Have them go for a run in the snow, Effendi.  It builds character.”  His smile was vicious.  
            Ezio snorted.  “Everything unpleasant builds character.  Danke,” he added as he accepted his shirt and robes from Alain.  The young man stole another quick glance at her and Ibrahim hissed under his breath in disapproval.  
            “The perils of having a beautiful woman, fratello,” Ezio smirked at his fellow Master as his hand wandered down over her hip.  She focused on her breathing and hoped he didn’t grope her in front of so many people; he had a habit of being aggressively demonstrative with her around other men.  
            “They stare because she looks like a child,” Ibrahim retorted.  “No offense, Khanum.”  
            Ezio’s expression hardened into a scowl at Ibrahim’s comment, but he allowed himself to be restrained from commenting by her light touch on his arm.  She gritted her teeth and smiled.   
            “Of course not.”  She knew she looked young for her age, but being called a child was a bit much.  “I’m going to your rooms lay down for a little while, varpet.”  
            “Not without me, you’re not,” he replied, wadding up his shirt and using it to rub away the sweat and dust that clung to his skin.  “We need to do some celebrating.  Maybe dinner alone tonight?  And then dinner tomorrow with the family?”  
            “Yes, I would like that,” she replied and demurely lowered her eyes.  Having dinner alone with Ezio would be a relief now that she didn’t have to worry about hiding her nausea from him, but the same could not be said of having dinner with his family.  Altaïr and Kadija would be supportive and happy for them, or politely disinterested, quite possibly all at the same time.  Mari would probably be sweetness and smiles to Ezio, but she knew her sister-in-law didn’t like her or want her to be a part of their family and would not be pleased that she was pregnant.  
            Ezio smiled at her distractedly before turning back to address his students.  “Genug für heute.  Wir werden morgen wieder starten.  Sicherheit und Frieden.”  
            The fidā'ī melted away with murmurs of ‘Sicherheit und Frieden’ and covertly curious glances at her.  Ingeborg lingered, shadowed by Alain.  
            “Congratulations, Effendi,” Ingeborg said with a smile that showed far too many teeth to be genuinely meant.  Alain smiled as well, but his was far less confident.  


            She curled up on her side, gripping her pillow tightly as she tried to keep her tears silent.  Ezio had not been gentle with her.  
            He had stripped off all of her clothes as soon as they got back to their assigned quarters.  _Show me everything that’s mine, mogliettina._   He’d studied her body while she tried not to squirm with discomfort at his scrutiny and obvious, rampant arousal.  It had hurt so much when he made her ride him, throbbing crescendos in her aching breasts as they were jostled by the violence of his thrusts, the sharp sting when he breached her and the persistent burning and tightness she felt as he moved inside her.  She still felt a lingering tingle in her loins from the magic he’d used to force her orgasm.  She had conflicting feelings about being made to orgasm; while on the one hand, the sensation itself was pleasant and seemed to please Ezio, on the other, it made her feel disconnected from her body, powerless and ashamed.  She squeezed her thighs together and drew her knees up slightly.  She wished the nausea would go away.  
            “Hey mogliettina,” Ezio murmured behind her.  She felt the mattress shift under his weight as he settled his body against hers.  “How do you feel?” he asked, pressing languid, gentle kisses against the back of her neck as one of his hands slid down her stomach.  
            _Sick.  Hurt.  Anxious_.  
            “Tired and a little nauseous,” she replied, rolling over to face him.  He kissed her and she could taste the khundzori oghi he’d been drinking on his lips.  Her stomach churned with anxiety and she whimpered as he thrust two fingers inside her; Ezio got rough after he started drinking.  
            He made a soothing sound low in his throat.  “Let me take care of you, mogliettina,” he cajoled.  “I love your tight little figa.”  He kissed her again, a little sloppy and a lot aggressive, and part of her really liked it.  She wasn’t faking her excitement at his touch, the eagerness with which she returned his kisses.  He liked it when she was responsive, when she was excited by and eager for his caresses.  It hurt terribly when he tried to force a third finger inside of her.  
            “I want to give you a minet, varpet,” she blurted out, trying to sit up and close her thighs.  She didn’t really, but she knew he loved blowjobs, and she wanted to avoid him demanding more painful sex from her.  
            _That_ had gotten his attention.   
            “Yeah?” he asked hopefully.  
            She wondered how many of the Armenian words she used he actually understood.  He certainly had learned the word for ‘blowjob’ quickly; she suspected that it was one of the first words he learned in any language.  She managed to push him back onto the bed and reached down to fondle his testicles; he hummed appreciatively and spread his legs a little wider for her.  
            “Voglio un bel pompino con l'ingoiò, mogliettina.”  He nudged her towards his straining erection; it wasn’t a subtle request.  She smiled and pressed kisses against his stomach, his hip, the top of his thigh, until he groaned in frustration and reached down to stroke himself.  She batted his hand away and continued to tease him, working her way closer to where he wanted her touch most.  
            He moaned her name when she took him in her mouth.  She braced her free hand on his hip to keep his thrusting to a minimum; the constant nausea made her worry what might happen if he triggered her gag reflex.  He moaned and squirmed as she sucked, reaching down and snaring his hand in her hair.  She felt a flash of annoyance because she knew he would pull her hair when he came, but if she released her hold on his hip to remove her hair from his grip he’d start thrusting and she’d gag.  His testicles were tight and high under her fingertips.  
            “Spremere mio coglioni,” he breathlessly begged and she knew he would climax soon.  
            She slid her fingers to the smooth skin just behind his testicles and pressed, rubbing in slow circles as she focused.  _He’s not the only one who can wield that type of power_.  He jolted at the first tendrils of magic she channeled into him and started praying.  
            “ _Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae; vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve_ -” he cried out when he came, back arching and heels shoveling into the mattress.  She yelped when he pulled her hair, but it was muffled as she hastily swallowed.  He drew her up against himself and kissed her.  “I’m sorry mogliettina, I didn’t mean to hurt you, please forgive me,” he pleaded between deep, desperate kisses.  
            “Be gentle, Ezio, please.  You might hurt the baby.”  
            He froze.  “Did the medic tell you that?”  
            She settled against his chest and started tracing his marriage scar to distract him as she tried to decide what to say.  She was tempted to tell him that Yusriyah had advised against frequent intercourse – which she _technically_ hadn’t, not exactly – she’d been told to avoid strenuous, high-impact activities, like running and jumping.  Yusriyah hadn’t said anything about sex; she probably – mistakenly – assumed that Ezio wouldn’t have to be told that he shouldn’t force sex on her as often as he did.  She was worried that he would turn to other, more sexually permissive women for that type of companionship if she didn’t satisfy him, and decide she wasn’t worth the trouble of keeping.  Ingeborg had not been subtle about her willingness to become Ezio’s mistress.  
            “Taline?”  He hooked a finger under her chin and raised her eyes to his.  “What did the hekim say?”  He looked worried.  
            “She told me to be careful and not do anything strenuous,” she replied truthfully.  “The little ones are going to be so disappointed that I can’t play with them for a while-”  
            “I don’t give a damn if a pack of other people’s brats are disappointed, mogliettina.  Not if that keeps you and our baby healthy and safe,” he told her, tone firm and expression uncharacteristically grave.  “ _You_ are the only one who matters to me.”  
            “Ezio-”  
            “I don’t,” he insisted.  “They can be disappointed for however long you need.  If anyone has a problem with that, they can come bitching to _me_.”  
            She bit back her smile and tried to kiss the hardness from his mouth.  “My fearsome varpet.”  
            “I am.  Both fearsome and your varpet.”  He shifted onto his side and pressed her hips against him, uncharastically somber and silent.  Usually he was cuddly and affectionate after he came, chatty even; she wasn’t sure how to interpret his strange mood.  “How long have you known – about the baby, I mean.  How long, Taline?”  
            “The hekim told me today, just after noon,” she replied carefully.  “That’s why I came to see you; I couldn’t wait to share the good news.”  
            “But you had to have at least suspected before then,” he pressed.  
            “Yes,” she admitted hesitantly, watching him closely, gauging his reaction.  
            “How long?” he demanded.  “When did you start to wonder?”  
            She ran the tip of her tongue along the familiar inner rim of her bottom teeth as she tried to decide what to say.  “When my breasts became tender, not long after my bleeding.  The symptoms felt… familiar.”  
            “So a few days ago, when I asked what was wrong and you said you might have had influenza, you knew then.”  
            “I didn’t know for sure,” she protested.  “It might have been influenza.”  
            “But you suspected,” he pressed.  “You knew it wasn’t influenza.”  
            “Yes, I guess-”  
            “So you lied to me,” he stated flatly.  He sat up and raked a hand through his hair.  “Che cazzo!  Stop lying to me Taline.  I’m your fucking husband, and you’ll tell me the god-damn truth when I ask you something!”  
            “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” she protested weakly, flinching away from his anger.  
            “So you lie to me instead?” he demanded.  “Did you really think that would be better?  What did you think would happen when I found out?”  
            “I, I,” she faltered.  Her eyes were stinging and her throat felt tight.  She didn’t know how else to respond, so she let herself cry.  Ezio sighed in exasperation, but he still drew her against his chest and caressed her comfortingly.  
            “I’m sorry, mogliettina.  You were just trying to be kind.  Please don’t cry.”  
            She let herself be comforted, and later, when he started kissing her like a lover, she opened herself to him and managed not to flinch at the pain of him moving inside her.  
            “Taline,” he breathed against her neck.  “My bride, my wife, mother of my child-” he broke off with a groan as he finished.  
            “My varpet,” she cooed between kisses as she stroked her hands down his sides.  She hoped he had exhausted himself for the night; the place between her legs felt raw, stinging and swollen.  “My husband.  Father of my child-”  
            He interrupted her with a kiss.  “I have something for you, mogliettina.  It’s in the top drawer, on my side of the dresser.  Bring it here?”  
            “What is it?” she asked, snuggling against him sleepily.  
            “Go get it and see,” he replied encouragingly.  
            “Can it wait until tomorrow?  You’ve worn me out,” she mumbled against his chest.  
            “Then I’ll get it.  I’ve been waiting for the right time to give it to you.”  He slipped out of bed and she watched him pad over to the dresser.  
            _He’s such a beautiful man_ , she thought as her eyes slid down his body.  _So very well made_.  She cuddled back against his chest when he returned to their bed.  He took something out of the small box he’d carried back with him and slid it down the fourth finger of her left hand; her ring finger.  
            “What is it?” she murmured, lifting her hand to study the ring he’d placed on her finger.  It was a beautiful art deco setting, dominated by a large rectangular emerald, flanked on either side by two smaller, also rectangular, warm raspberry-toned red gems, set in the same strange oil-slick black metal Ezio’s blades were made from.  It hummed with magic.  
            “My mother told me emeralds symbolize love and rebirth, new beginnings,” he murmured, drawing her closer against him.  “I originally wanted you to have one because of your pretty green eyes, but you’re my new beginning, too.  These,” he continued softly, indicating the smaller raspberry-toned gems, “are Alexandrite.  They change color, depending on the light.  During the day, in sunlight, they’ll look bluish-green, but at night, when we’re together, they’ll be this color; warm and passionate, like I want us to be.”  
            “Oh, Ezio,” she breathed.  _He’s so sweet when he tries_.  
            “We don’t, Assassins don’t, wear rings when we wed,” he explained haltingly.  “This is the finger that is branded when we take our vows.  Nothing must come before our loyalty to the Order – you can see the problematic symbolism of a wedding ring obstructing the physical reminder of our vows.”  
            “Is that why your marriage contracts leave the scars they do,” she asked softly, looking up at him through her lashes.  
            “Yes.  Our hearts are still ours to give, but only once.”  
            She reached over and ran a careful fingertip over the heavy signet ring he wore on the fourth finger of his left hand.  “You and Altaïr wear rings over your brands.”  
            “All Masters do.  It’s called the Ferrymen’s Ring.  My Grandmaster put it on my finger when I became a Master.  Our blades are broken when we die, but my ring will be given to you, handed down to our children and their children after them.”  He pulled the ring off his finger and showed her the inscription inside the band.  _Ignis Gladio Non Fodiendus_.  “The fire should not be stirred by the sword,” he translated.  “The motto of my father’s family.  I didn’t select it so much as it was chosen for me; I am my uncle’s heir, the last of the line.  If we don’t have sons my family name ends with me.”  He slid the heavy ring back into place.  It unsettled her, how casually he spoke of dying, his assumption that she would be left his widow.  She shivered.  
            “There’s still Mari,” she replied distractedly as she studied the ring he’d given her.  
            “Her children will have their father’s name.”  He watched her for a moment, lips curved in the barest hint of a smile.  “Do you like it, mogliettina?” he asked.  There had been the slightest hesitation in his voice, a hint of uncertainty to his tone, like he was worried that she wasn’t entirely happy with his gift.  
            “I love it,” she assured him.  “It’s beautiful, and it fits so well.  How did you know my size?”  
            He smiled mischievously.  “I tied a piece of string around your finger when you were sleeping.  You almost woke up and caught me.  I was worried it would spoil the surprise.”  
            “How clever,” she murmured and let him kiss her to cover her sudden unease that he had used his magic to keep her from waking.  She slept fairly lightly, she’d had to in the six years since she ran away; she couldn’t afford to be caught unawares.  Her husband moved with extraordinary speed and silence – especially for a man of his size – all the fidā'ī did.  She still hadn’t gotten used to how quietly they moved.  She wasn’t used to people being able to creep up on her.  To be fair, the Assassins weren’t used to her either.  She’d often caught the ones who didn’t know she was Cathari looking at her oddly, almost as though they had picked up that something didn’t quite add up with her, that she wasn’t what they had been lead to believe.  She wondered what would happen when they started to piece it together; she hoped Ezio would be there to protect her.  
            “Can I get you anything, mogliettina?” he asked her gently, brushing the calloused pad of his thumb across her lips.  “Are you craving something?  Anything at all, piccola mamma?  You’re still so thin; I worry about you.”  
            “It’s hard to eat when I’m nauseous all the time,” she murmured defensively.  “I’m _trying_ , varpet.”  
            “I know,” he soothed.  “I know you try hard bellissima.  I wasn’t faulting you, I just want to help you feel better and be strong for our child.”  
            She bit her lip and lowered her eyes.  “Yusriyah said I probably lost our baby because of the stress from worrying while you were away.  I was so frightened here without you-”  
            “Hush now,” he soothed.  “None of that.  I promised that I’d keep you safe, and I will.  Okay, Taline?”  
            She nodded and hid her face against his chest.  She let herself cry for her relatives that he’d killed and let him think it was for the child they’d lost, melting into the comfort of his arms.  He left her briefly to order food and then fed her bites of roast duck and grilled polenta while they cuddled in bed, slipped hothouse strawberries past her lips between kisses and honeyed, watered wine.  They took a bath together after that and his touch was gentle as he washed her, his kisses tender and sweet.  It was easy for her to forget what he had done, what he was capable of doing, when he wanted to be gentle and loving.  _You’re not safe_ , she reminded herself.  _He’s dangerous_.  Ezio dropped to his knees before her, on the rag rug next to the bath while they were drying off, to press a kiss against her abdomen.  
            “We’re going to have a baby,” he whispered, looking up at her.  His eyes were shining and suspiciously bright.  “We made a _person_ together, mogliettina.”  He was gripping her hips so tightly it hurt and she forced herself to smile.  
            “Yes, varpet, you’re going to be a father,” she murmured, combing her fingers through his hair – he seemed to like it when she did that.  
            “Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto,” he breathed and pressed another hard kiss against her belly.  “You’re carrying my child.  You’re going to make me a father.”  
            “We’re going to have a baby, the first of many,” she promised.  _Lilitu bless me; let me keep this child.  Bless me, Mother, bless me_ , she fervently prayed.  Ezio beamed at her, cheeks wet with happy tears.  Her smile felt brittle.  She was so afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another Season draws to a close. Thanks s'much for reading! Season 3 is currently being written and edited (http://bunimalsfiberdolls.tumblr.com/post/162526045453/the-road-so-far) (because I'm too lazy to properly link right now) is a somewhat recent update on where I am with Season 3 so far. Also, apologies in advance if you somehow stumble through my tumblr and didn't realize how really and truly weird I am. Until next season!


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